San Andreas Days, San Andreas Nights
by Larcen
Summary: Liberty City's most wanted felon travels to the City by the Bay to start an empire of his own.
1. Loose Ends

BLAM!  
  
Maria's head snapped back and she flew a couple of feet. Like a gunfighter, I blew the smoke from the barrel of my nine and slowly stepped towards where Maria had fallen. Her expression wasn't that of anger or anguish, but rather one of genuine surprise, a neat circular hole freshly planted above her left eye. I'm sure that dreams of a cozy red house with a white picket fence and a couple rugrats running around had been dancing in her head up till the moment of her demise. Really seemed like she had took a real liking to me; it was unfortunate that the feeling wasn't mutual. I had things to do.  
  
Walking out of Cochrane Dam I stuck my gat into my pants and made my way to the Cartel Cruiser that I had recently liberated from Catalina's mansion. I noticed that the hubcaps had been lifted during my short absence. Shit, I thought, this sort of riffraff was only supposed to happen in Portland. I immediately dismissed it and got behind the wheel of Catalina's vehicle. I fished a battered pack of Lucky Strikes out of my jacket pocket and tapped out a stog. I pushed in her car's lighter, leaned back and shut my eyes. It was all finally over. I had got that backstabbing bitch back for getting me tossed in the stir, the mafia's organization was in chaos, the cartel and their spank business presently obsolete, and the yakuza was without a leader. Liberty City could've been mine for the taking, if I wanted it. The lighter popped out with an audible click. I pressed the heated metal into the cancer stick and took a long, deep drag. I exhaled a cloud of blue smoke and put the sucker in drive; my destination: Francis International Airport. Fuck Liberty city, I needed something new.  
  
A parade of Liberty City's finest flew down the road, their sirens blaring a deafening klaxon. I counted up to seven, then quit because I didn't feel like doing it anymore. Squad car after squad car sped past my cruiser in the adjacent lane of traffic. Apparently they were taking Catalina's helicopter mishap fairly seriously. Some flatfoot wanted to be a hero; sure sucked that they missed the fireworks by a mere minutes. I arrived at the airport when it hit me: I had no money. Damn, I had neglected to bring my bankroll with me; I was  
  
so juiced about getting word from Catalina that I had straight forgot about it. I needed to make a beeline back to my hideout. I flipped on Flashback Radio and listened to Deborah Harry sing about her favorite vice. I rolled the cruiser into the driveway of my Shoreside Vale hideaway and was out in a flash. I hustled my ass though the double doors and punched the call elevator button. After seveal moments, the metal doors parted and I stepped inside the lift. On the way up, I picked up a funny scent that immediately made me think of Sears Point raceway that my pop had taken me to when I was a kid. I shook my head as the lift made it to my floor and the elevator opened. I exited, picked up the brown carrying bag and walked towards the plush bed that sat in the middle of the room. Kneeling down, I procured a solid metal lockbox from under the bedframe and plopped in onto the bed. I opened the box and my jaw damn near dropped to the ground floor. My entire stash was gone.  
  
"Planning on going somewhere?" a voice from behind me asked.  
  
I spun around to come face to face with Joey Leone clad in his mechanic coveralls that were stained with motor oil and grime. He was holding a SaveOn plastic shopping bag crammed with stacks of dead presidents in his left hand, a silver plated magnum in his right.  
  
"Joey," I said, "how you doing, brother? That's quite a piece you got there."  
  
That's right, play it cool.  
  
"Shut your fucking mouth you rat bastard."  
  
Looks like cool might be going out the window. Taking a few slow steps towards Joey I tried my hardest to sound amiable.  
  
"Listen, Joey, put the gun down. It doesn't have to be like this." He fiddled with the hammer and spat "You take one step closer and I'll blow your fucking ass away!"  
  
I halted and pointed towards the shopping bag. "So, you're taking my funds."  
  
"And I'm also taking your life. You killed my dad, and now I'm going to repay the favor." He flicked the hammer back and I saw my life flash before my eyes. This was it, all she wrote, seeya later...when then I opened my mouth.  
  
"Wait. Joey I didn't cap Salvatore. I admit that I worked for the Yakuza, but I had no hand in your fathers death. If you spare my life, I can double what's in that shopping bag."  
  
"Why should I believe you?"  
  
"Because, I'm telling you the god honest truth."  
  
Joey looked at me for a long hard minute. I could feel the beads of presperation gathering on my brow and the business end of the 357 Magnum looked about as large as the fear in my stomach.  
  
"Fuck you, douche bag." He barked and then pulled the trigger. I squeezed my eyes shut, and waited to feel my intestines drop to the floor.  
  
CLICK.  
  
I opened my eyes and saw Joey grimace. Misfire? He dropped the plastic bag, grasped the heater in both hands and tried again. CLICK. CLICK. Today must be my lucky day. In one fluid movement, I snatched my nine millimeter from the back of my pants and drew it upon Joey Leone. Looking down the barrel of a gun is a frightening thing, as I saw his expression change from vengeful fury to icy fear. A second later, I emptied my entire clip into his midsection and face. Salvatore Leone's son did a funny little jig as the bullets tore apart his vitals, finally collapsing against the wall. He slowly slid down, leaving a trail of crimson on the paint. I quickly grabbed the shopping sack and emptied the contents into the brown carrying bag. I stepped over Joey Leone, careful not to get his blood on my kicks, and took the elevator downstairs. I opened the doors and took a breath of fresh air. It was finally over; no more loose ends, I was free.  
  
That's when i felt the butt of an uzi connect with the back of my skull with an unhealthy crunch. I fell to my knees as a foot was shot to my back. My mouth instantly flooded with the taste of copper as I rolled over to see who had coldcocked me. Misty stood over my frame, gun in hand. Her features were hard to read because she stood right in front of the sun; sort of a Misty eclipse.  
  
"Are you going to kill me?" I gasped.  
  
"No. You were always nice to me. But something that's even nicer than you is what's in your bag." Misty leaned over, keeping the uzi trained on my face, and picked up my bag full of high society. "The right color, and it always fits. See ya around, hon."  
  
She drove her stiletto heel into my sweetmeats. Pain exploded in my groin as I curled into a fetal position, my balls already swelling to the size of mason jars. I caught Misty hopping into the passenger side of a gold Sentinal and I could've sworn that she winked at me. The bitch. It all made sense though. She must've rigged Joey's gun to misfire when she saw the opportunity to swoop in for the goods. Women. And they call them the weaker sex, I mused as I picked myself off of the ground. My head was throbbing and I was fairly certain I was just deprived of my ability to father children. Screw it, I thought, they'd only grow up to take me for all I had anyways.  
  
I staggered into my black Kurmura and laughed at the irony of it all. The call girl gets the motherload and probably escapes to a tropical paradise. I guess vice does pay...I put the car in drive and headed towards the airport. I think I had about worn out my welcome in Liberty City, I need a change of scenery in a major way. Vice City would be nice, but too hard to establish a racket there; Tommy Vercetti still had that place under his thumb. City of Angels was a possiblity, as was Sin City, but a little voice was telling me that my place was the Bay.  
  
"And how can I help you today, sir?" The girl at the ticket counter asked with a smile that looked like it cost several thousand dollars.  
  
"How much for a ticket to San Andreas?"  
  
My compass had quit spinning and found itself a true north...to the West... 


	2. Styx's Assignment

Angelo Styx ran a hand through his greasy hair, pushed his oversized aviator shades up on the bridge of his nose,   
and pressed the buzzer again. It looked like he was going to have to play the waiting game, again. Jesus, Styx   
thought to himself, this shit is ridiculous. Big fucking gangster and it takes him a half a fucking hour to answer   
the goddamn door. Unreal. Styx turned his back on the cast iron door and pinched the marijuana cigarette perched   
above his left ear. Styx stuck the jay in his mouth and sparked the tip ablaze with a zippo bearing James Dean's   
image on it. The streets of San Francisco's Mission District were unusually calm and quiet, even for it being the   
evening's afterhours. Styx enjoyed the serenty of 20th street as the first sensations of a weed buzz racked his body.  
  
Yeah, take your fucking time old man, I'm just gonna kick back here and relax with my thoughts. Angelo Styx took   
a seat on the steps of 1240 20th Street, not caring that he was getting his ass dirty on the scummy concrete, and   
sighed. He had received the phone call to come and see "El Jefe" around 10 o'clock that night. The man on the   
other end of the line was brief, a pretty fucking vague. "Get your ass to 1240 20th. You know where it is?" Styx  
said he did, and started to ask what the deal was, but the only response he a 'click' followed by a dial tone.   
Asshole. Fuckin hang up on me? Yeah, just see you do that to my face. Hang on. Hang up on me face to face?   
Styx laughed and took another hit. Shit, I'm baked. A buzzer from somewhere inside 1240 whined and the door   
unlocked. Bout fucking time. Styx raised up, yanked the door ajar, and stepped inside. Styx was met by a heavy set   
Latino man wearing a white hooded sweatshrt and a pissed off demeanor.   
  
"Hi." said Styx, still holding the jay. Heavy Set grabbed Styx by the collar and slammed him up against the wall.  
  
The marijuana cigarette Styx was loosely holding tumbles into the darkness.  
  
"Hey, my doob! What the fuck, man? You asked me to come here! What's with this shit?"  
  
Heavy set started to pat Styx down, feeling his weathered brown leather jacket, dirty Levis, and outside his steel   
toed motorcycle boots. He spun Styx around, and lifted his aviators up so he could peer into his eyes. Soon after,   
Heavy Set nodded and pushed an intercom button on the wall.   
  
"He's clean." Heavy Set growled into the speaker.  
  
"Send him up." A voice squaked back.  
  
"All right. Jefe will see you now."  
  
Incredulous, Styx straightened out his jacket and started brushing it off.  
  
"What's with the goddamn third degree? You know me."  
  
"I don't know you from Adam. Now get your ass upstairs."  
  
"Clumsy maiz. That jay better be there when I get back."  
  
Satisfied he had gotten the last word, Styx hurried down the hall towards the staircase leading upwards. Fuckin'   
prick, Styx said to himself. What's he think I'm gonna do? Bring a heater in here and blow the old man away,   
muffing up a chance for employment. Shit, I want to be famous, but icing a gang lord is risky business.   
The stairs extended three stories high, with a door at the top. Styx stopped in in front of the closed   
door, took a deep breath and rapped his knuckles against the wood.   
  
"Ven te!" A voice from inside called. Styx opened the door and stepped inside.  
  
  
  
  
  
Rico "Jefe" Lobo had been known as The Chief since 1979. Ruben Blades (like the singer) the Jefe at the time   
decided to go to a meet without his right hand, soft spoken young capo Rico Lobo. Blades was found in an alleyway   
dumpster in Chinatown, his body impaled over 340 times, along with several razor blades coated with Blades' insides.   
A frenzied upheaval followed The Blades Hit, numerous generals in Lobo's army vying for the chair at the end of the   
table. Civil war within an organization like Los Lobos never lasts long; one always has to emerge as the rock to   
which the outfitwill lean on, grow upon, expand and succeed. Rico Lobo had that vision. He also had a double   
barrelled Remington.  
  
The years had not been hard on Jefe. Most men his age waded through midlife crises', while Jefe merely had to worry   
over a crew of ninety heads competing with several of the new blood emerging on the street, threatening his assets,   
causing ruckus,and getting known. He still managed a trim fighting weight of two-twenty-five. He ripped a California   
phone book in half last week after finding out the Dutchman's crew knocked off a series of grocery stores along   
24th Street. Rico Lobo sat at his desk, feet propped on the table, with the Chronicle sports section   
in front of him, looking as serene as a lake sunset, a Mexicali cigar stuck in the corner of his mouth.  
  
Angelo Styx, stood before him, wearing those stupid fucking glasses. Who did he   
think he was? Ponch? Leave his CHP scooter behind. Cavron. But the color of his skin kept him useful, despite   
the Angelo Styx bullshit he had to endure. Styx sauntered over to the wooden chair sitting in from of Jefe's desk   
and unsacrimoniously plopped down.  
  
"Sit up, chico."  
  
Styx made a face and started to squirm a little.  
  
"Fucking A, Jefe, your 'peenchie balbosa' at the door damn near tore up my new jacket and-"  
  
"New jacket? Where is this new jacket from? The underneath of a Buick?"  
  
Styx regarded his leather jacket for a second and shrugged.  
  
"I got it at the American Eagle Outlet."  
  
"Why does it look like so fucking destroyed?"  
  
"That's the way I bought it. Lived in look. Primo babe magnet. Bettys fucking flock to this shit bro-"  
  
"Calla te. Cerra la boca. Es final. Mira."  
  
Jefe folded his paper once, twice, tossed it in a desk drawer then extracted a manilla folder from the same drawer.   
The cherry of his Mexicali shone as Jefe blew a cloud of smoke towards Styx. He slid the folder across the oak table  
as it fell into Styx's lap.  
  
"What do we have here," Stxy breathed softly, "little sickness to be remidied?" Disregarding the tiny metal fold   
lock, Styx ripped off the top of the manilla, and emptied its contents of several pages of handwritten notes, and   
stack of polaroids spilled onto his lap. The handwriting on the notes looked as if it was done by a struggling   
four year old, and the polaroids were all medium shots of differnt people. A slender Japanese man getting out of   
a silver and red Infernus. A tall, strong jawed man delivering a speech behind a podium. A Japanese woman   
suntanning. A fat Itallian man shovelling pasta in his mouth, flanked by several gentelman in Armani. A well   
built Columbian man wearing a colorful shirt arguing with a stunningly attractive Columbian woman. Finally, a man   
wearing a black leather jacket extending both arms while firing a pair of nine millimeter pistols at a group of   
Yardies.  
  
"Anyone look familiar?"  
  
Styx studied the photographs again. He shook his head.  
  
"Never seen 'em in my life. Altough I think I caught the speech dude on C-SPAN..."  
  
"You're looking at the remains of Liberty City's late underworld. Yakuza, Mafia, Columbians, todos murete. El hombre   
alli is the man who executed the hits. I have received word that this man is on a plane directed towards San   
Francisco International Airport."  
  
"Looks like kind of a pussy to me. I could probably kick his-"  
  
"Calla te! Peenchie idiota! We need this man working for us! He can be a valuable ally. Find him."  
  
"Fock, boss, I don't want to be one of those assholes at SFO holding the goofy white cards-"  
  
"You'll do just that."  
  
"Christ. What's his name anyways."  
  
"Back of the photograph. So you do not forget."  
  
Styx turned over the polaroid and squinted behind his aviator shades to deceifer the chicken scratch.   
  
'Vegas "Fido" Minor'?  
  
"Fido? Oh, I've heard of this dude. Real badass. Feeds people to his dogs, that's why he got the nickname."   
Styx looks back the photo. "I could probably still beat the shi-"  
  
"If want him in my presance in now less than one-hundred twenty minutes. Vamos."  
  
"But, Jefe, I can't..." Styx trailed off.  
  
Jefe had picked up his paper and continued reading.  
  
Fuck, Styx thought, baby sitting for some East Coast upstart fuck? Christ.  
With a deep sigh, Styx slapped his hands on his thighs and sat up.  
  
"I'll do it, but I'm not going to be responsible..."  
  
A cloud of smoke billowed from behind the sports page.  
  
"Alright. Outty five-kay."  
  
  
  
  
  
Styx shut the door to Jefe's office and slumped his shoulders. Man, I thought I was going to get a real job, some   
strong arming, extortion, or maybe even something as exotic as a 'cancellation'. Instead, I'm a goddamn baby   
sitter. Assfuck. Man, I could be worth so much more to this outfit, they dont even know...Styx shuffled down   
the flight of stairs when the scent of burnt mary jane wafted up. Styx rushed to the ground floor to find Heavy   
Set sitting on a stool, arms folded, shit eating grin plastered on his face. Styx walked over to Heavy Set and stood  
over him.  
  
"You sack of shit. You smoked my jay."  
  
"What jay? You didn't have shit white boy."  
  
"Hope you enjoyed it."  
  
"Vamos, gringo."  
  
"Shit was laced with PCP ya fuck." Styx lied.  
  
Heavy Set looked alarmed for a second, the angry. He yanked open the metal door and shoved Angelo Styx into the   
brisk San Francisco night. The door slammed shut and the buzzer rang again, locking the bulding's entrance. So   
this is it, errand boy? Fuck Jefe, I'm so much better than this shit. Styx stole a glance at his pocketwatch.   
  
Shit, he thought, I better get moving. Peenchie balboso. 


	3. The Friendly Skies

I've never been one to ride on planes. Car rides, fine, trains, okay, but planes?   
For some reason, flying the friendly skies always turned out to be an adventure. After   
escaping the mess that had become Liberty City, getting into another scrape was the last   
thing on my mind. All I wanted to do was hit the recline button on my plush, extra comfy   
first-class seat, stick on the headphones, and sleep my way to San Andreas. Too bad nothing   
ever comes that easy.  
Roughly twenty minutes into the flight, a pretty stewardess with a blinding smile   
(didn't they all?) asked me if I'd like some peanuts and something to wet my whistle. I   
asked for two packages, even though I had no intention of putting any airline food into my   
system; what did she think I was, stupid? I also asked the cutie to bring me on back two   
fingers of bourbon, neat. She dimpled dutifully, handed me my nuts, and proceeded with   
the rest of her serving. At least the booze was free.  
I was seated in the middle of first class, aisle seat. Next to me was a sleeping   
man, middle aged, with a mustache that would've made Rollie Fingers jealous. A fine   
looking silver Rolex was wrapped around his wrist. I considered acquiring a new timepiece,  
but decided against it. That was kid shit, I was beyond being a regular pickpocket; after  
all, he didn't look like he was sleeping all that soundly. I stretched my legs out, laced  
my hands behind my head, and made a decision to emulate my neighbor. Mr. Sandman, take   
me away. Then I fell under the blanket of slumber, and I was back in Liberty, more specific  
ally, the strip club. I was sipping on a martini getting a lap dance by one of the lovely   
and talented dancers from Luigi's. Then someone in the club shrieked "Oh my god, he's got   
a gun!"  
What a rude awakening. I sat up in my seat to find some yahoo staning in the   
middle of the aisle waving a pistol around like it were a flag. The hijacker had olive   
skin, and wore a denim suit. He looked more Italian than Arabian, but when he opened his   
mouth to shout orders and demands, his accent was definately of Middle Eastern decsent.   
"Listen to me! This is a hijacking! I will not hesitate to exectute every single   
one of you! We will not be going to San Andreas!" The man grabbed a stewardess and stuck   
the gun to her temple. "Tell the pilot to reroute this aircraft to these coordinates" He   
shoved her away snatched a passenger sitting next to wear he was standing, a teenaged girl   
who looked scared out of her wits. "And I do mean it! Life means nothing to me!" The   
sonofabitch put a bullet in her in her head. She slumped to the floor, lifeless as many   
of the passengers of flight 302 screamed in terror. Man, this dude had no class at all.   
I took out a cigarette and lit up, despite the 'no smoking' light lit up above my head.   
The smoke wafting up from my seat got the attention of the hijacker. He strided over to   
my seat, and raised his firearm in my general direction.  
"What do you think you're doing?" He spat.  
"Smoking a cigarette. What does it look like I'm doing?"  
He flicked back the hammer.  
"Don't you know there's no smoking on these flights?"  
Was he serious? I exhaled a blue cloud at the hijacker.  
"Well, seeing as you've taken this flight hostage, and exectued one of its passenger  
s, i thought that the conventional rules of flying had sort of gone out the window. And I   
haven't even gotten my drink yet. I need something to calm my nerves."  
He was walking right into it.  
"Put it out, or become the second to be sacrificed."  
"Okay."  
So I flicked the cigarette at the hijackers face, into his eyes. He screamed and   
put dropped his heater, clawing at his mug. I picked up the gat and stood up. He was   
crouched over, and then shot a glance at me. He did not look happy, but then again, neither  
was I. I never got my drink. I pistol whipped the hijacker, once, twice, fifteen times,   
until his face resembled a half eaten cherry cobbler. I dropped the pistol, and looked   
around at the rest of the passengers of flight 302. Some still looked terrified, but for   
the most part, the people looked grateful. I never played the part of the hero much before  
, but they say that a change can do a man good. Some started to applaud. The stewardess   
poked her head out of her station.  
"Hey stewardess. How about that bourbon?"  
***  
  
The remainder of the flight went on without a hitch. Despite the fact that flight   
302 carried two corpses, it didn't seem like the passengers minded much. I guess when that  
survival mode clicks on, those grateful to be alive cease to be queasy about the dead. We  
touched down in San Andreas and we were herded out of the plane. However, I was escorted   
by airport security thourough a locked door, down a long hallway, and into a windowless   
room containing a table and two chairs. I was seated, and the men who led me there told   
me to wait. I said okay, I lit up a cigarette. I didn't see an ashtray, but even if i   
did, i still probably would've ashed on the floor. The door opened and a severe looking   
gentleman wearing a clean cut dark double breasted suit walked in. He sat oppostie of me and   
folded his hands on the table. He wore glasses, John Lennon style.  
"That was a mighty brave thing you did on that flight."  
"He wanted to take us, myself included, where I didn't want to go. I didn't think   
it was such a good idea. And he iced that girl."  
"Which makes your actions that much more special. He proved he was a dangerous   
individual, yet you still managed to neutralize him. Pan American Airlines wishes to thank  
you."  
"Tell them to buy me bottle of Jack and a box of Cubans and we'll call it even."  
The man chuckled. I took a drag off of my stog and offered one to the man. He   
shook his head.  
"What's your name, mister?"  
"You can call me Vegas."  
"Hmm. Alright."  
"And you are?"  
"You can call me Simpson. I represent the Zaibatsu Corporation."  
Uh oh. I had heard of these guys.  
"Zaibatsu, huh?"  
"Yes."  
"That's terriffic."  
"Yes."  
Sort of an uncomfortable silence.  
"Well, I think I should be shoving off now..." I started.  
"Not so fast." Simpson reached into his jacked pocket and extracted a tiny white   
business card. "Please contact the number on this card whenever it is convienent. You   
may find that it may behoove you. And once again, thank you for defusing a possible   
volitile situation."  
"Yeah no sweat."  
He led me out of the room, back down the long hallway, and back into the terminal.   
After shaking my hand, he turned and walked away, already talking on a cell phone.   
Zaibatsu? Damn, this could get serious. The Zaibatsu were something like the CIA, but   
independently run by private ownership. Rumor had it they had their dirty little fingers   
in many, many pies. I was glad I was on their good side, it was better than being on   
their shit list. I walked through the terminal. It was dusk, and I could see the city   
of San Andreas through the wall sized window. It looked beautful; it also looked ready to   
be taken, and I intended to do just that.  
"Hey, Vegas!"  
I turned around to find a scroungy looking fellow wearing a ratty leather duster   
and a pair of aviator shades running up to me.   
"Vegas, right?"  
I shrugged.  
"Depends. Who are you?"  
"Styx. Angelo Styx. I represent the Jefe."  
"Good for you. Excuse me." I started to walk away.  
"Hey, hold on! I need to take you to him!" Styx cried, walked towards my side.  
"Buddy, I've just been through a lot of shit, and all I really want to do is find a  
HoJo and hit the hay."  
"C'mon, he really wants to see you."  
The fucker pressed a barrel of a gun to my back through his jacket.  
"Like that, huh?"  
"Like that, Vegas. Here, there's a car waiting outside."  
And there was, a beat up late model Idaho. He opened the passenger side door.  
"After you."  
I stepped inside as he shut the door. It locked from the outside. Great. Styx ran  
around the front and got in the driver's seat. He started the car and pulled out a   
marijuana cigarette, which he handed to me.  
"Wanna start her up?"  
So I did. The weed was good. If nothing else, this assclown had good dank.   
"Off we go."  
  
*** 


	4. Business Before Pleasure

"What do you mean there's a cover charge?"  
  
The bouncer stood six foot seven, at least three bills, and touted some serious looking   
guns rippling underneath his black mesh cutoff, but Monty McNabb refused to be intimidated.   
McNabb was no small fry himself, but compared to the burly doorman, he was a boy next to   
a man.   
  
"I mean there is a fifteen dollar cover. Everyone has to pay it, no exceptions."  
  
"Lemme get this straight," Monty started, "when I'm inside, I'm gonna drop at least   
seventy bones on drinks alone, maybe a hundred more on party favors, and probably several   
banjoes on a lady of my choice...and I still have to give you money to get in?"  
  
The toothpick slid from one side of the bouncer's mouth the other as if guided by ball   
bearings. Monty sighed, jammed his hand into his jeans pocket palmed a five with a ten   
into the bouncers paw. The bouncer pocketed the money and stepped inside.   
  
"Enjoy."  
  
Yeah, whatever. Monty pushed open the double doors and stepped inside The Red Star, San   
Andreas' premiere gentleman's club. The Red Star was usually packed with wealthy fellas   
teeming with bills to spend and gorgeous ladies to appropriate the cash. Dr. Dre and the   
late Tupac Shakur belted out "California Love" as Monty waded through a throng of bodies   
to the bar. A gaudy red star was superimposed behind the bartender's shoulders. Monty   
raised a finger to get the girl's attention.  
  
"Hey, babe, lemme get a Jack and Coke."  
  
The lady behind the bar nodded and got cracking. A few moments later, drink in hand,   
Monty turned away from the bar and surveyed the crowd. He told the bouncer at the door a   
half truth; he did plan on spending a substantial amount of change tonight, just not on   
some doe eyed slut that had probably rode more guys than Candy Suxx. He took a sip and   
tried to ferret out the Russian. After all, he was here on business.  
  
Vladmir Makar, owner of The Red Star, was not a very difficult man to find; although one   
would think that this would be the exact opposite, him being a major San Andreas underworld  
crime boss. Ahem, alleged San Andreas underworld crime boss. Those who have attempted   
to claim otherwise, usually in a court of law, found themselves slipping and falling on a   
couple knives or accidentally suffocating on a plastic bag. Monty would never turn rat,   
but if he did, one guy he would never fink on would be Makar; there's just better ways to   
die.  
  
There. Makar was sitting at a table at the south end of the club, flanked by several   
Armani clad gentleman. Monty gulped down the remained of his drink, and nonchalantly tossed  
the glass behind his shoulder. The barkeep caught this out of the corner of her eye, and   
deftly snatched the glass in the before it shattered on the floor, shooting the broad should  
ered American an icy glare as he walked towards the general vicinity Mr. Makar. Monty   
sauntered towards Makar's table, taking his time, playing it cool. Impressions were very   
important to Monty McNabb, and he wanted to imprint a favorable one upon the Russian.  
  
Vladmir Makar had seen Monty as soon as he entered the club. A man in his position had to   
be sharp, couldn't afford not to be. If a man commanding an army were to lose his edge,   
where would he be then? Six feet deep, Makar thought. Rule with an iron fist and take   
sh*t from nobody. Those were the ideals Makar's father had instilled in him, before Makar's  
father was instilled a knife across his throat so many years ago back in Moscow. Monty   
did not impress Vladmir, this American with his designer shirts and fancy loafers. He knew  
of McNabb's reputation, some sort of cocaine dealer and freelance entrepreneur when he felt  
the need to be, but still wasn't impressed. McNabb finally arrived at the table and   
cleared his throat.  
  
"Mr. Makar."  
  
Makar feigned surprise.  
  
"Montgomery McNabb. A pleasant surprise. Please, sit." said Makar in a soft, cultured   
voice, only a slight hint of a Russian accent audible.  
  
Nice, McNabb thought. He sat opposite the boss and smiled, displaying his perfectly capped  
teeth.  
  
"Very nice establishment you have here. I'm impressed."  
  
"I'm glad you're enjoying your visit. Here." Makar pushed a shot glass towards Monty, and  
filled it with a bottle of Skyy Vodka. Monty raised his glass in cheers, and tipped it   
backwards. He smacked his lips and again cleared his throat.  
  
"Tell me, Montgomery, what brings you to San Andreas? It's quite a ways from The City of   
Angels."  
  
"Little business, little pleasure. You know how it is."  
  
Makar poured a shot for himself, and held the glass next to his face.  
  
"Business? Hmm. What kind of business would that be?"  
  
"Hey, we can discuss that later, I'd like to discuss a little something else, first..."   
Monty offered a crooked grin. Yeah, don't rush this, make it look like you're not too   
interested.  
  
"Ah, I believe something can be arranged."  
  
Makar raised a finger, indicating something to someone behind Monty. Monty turned around,   
and beheld perfection. She came in the form of a stunning, svelte, raven haired beauty walk  
ing towards the table. She wore a pair of leather pants that fit her hips like a glove,   
and a smile that could kill. She sat down next to Makar as he whispered something into her  
ear.  
  
"Montgomery, this is Katrina. Katrina, please treat our guest."  
  
Katrina rose, and took Monty by the hand.  
  
"We will talk shop in a bit, no?"  
  
"Sounds great, Mr. Makar."  
  
Katrina led Monty through The Red Star, his eyes glued to her ass. Up a flight of stairs   
and onto a hallway lined with suites. She looked over her shoulder and grinned again. Wow,  
what a smile, Monty thought. She opened a door at the end of the hall and led him inside.   
The room was dim, lit only by the neon red star outside. Katrina pounced on Monty, already  
ripping off his shirt and kissing his chest. Damn, she's a tomcat! She thrust her tongue  
in his mouth and unbuckled his belt. She started kissing his neck then worked her way   
downwards. Monty leaned back, and rolled his eyes into the back of his head.   
  
"God God!"  
  
***  
  
Katrina sucked on a cigarette and exhaled. The American laid passed out next to her. He   
was good looking, but a shitty lay. She tried her best to enjoy herself, but it was just   
so difficult. One pump chump. Hah. How pathetic. At least she was able to do her job.   
Katrina had found that after sex, men were so honest, willing to tell whatever. She learned  
that Montgomery was in San Andreas on business, and the nature was that of establishing a   
racket. He bragged that he was expanding his operations up North, and that he was   
interesting in teaming with Makar. Heh. Like that would ever happen. Makar was as   
ruthless as he was cunning, and partnerships only led to competition. He knew to keep his   
friends closer and his enemies closer, but some just weren't worth keeping at arm's length.  
  
Katrina sighed and reached under the bed, pulling out a Beretta pistol, equipped with a   
silencer. She racked chamber and gripped the pillow she was lying on. Katrina planted a   
soft kiss on Montgomery's lips, then slammed the pillow against his face. At that instant,   
Monty awoke, and started to struggle. She pushed the barrel against the pillow and pulled   
the trigger twice.  
  
Pftt! Pftt!  
  
Business before pleasure, Katrina thought, rules of the game. She dressed and worked her   
way downstairs to report to Makar that the American would cease to be a wrinkle in his   
criminal affairs. Makar smiled after hearing the news, and told one of his bodyguards to   
dispose of the corpse upstairs, sharpish. The suited hood nodded and got to it.   
  
"Well done, Katrina."  
  
"Thank you, father."  
  
"Now go get cleaned up, we have reservations at Consado's in an hour."  
  
"Alright, papa."  
  
Katrina left the table as Makar poured himself another shot. It's not easy being on top,   
  
Makar mused to himself, but if you keep an eye on your back, the future will always be at   
your front. He tipped the shot back and sighed.  
  
Now if only taking out that goddamn Mexican could be that easy... 


	5. Nice Gun

CHAPTER 5---NICE GUN  
  
Styx wasn't quite sure what to make of the hard looking dude sitting shotgun in his p.o.s. Idaho. He didn't talk much, just sat there looking out of the window passing the joint back and fourth. Styx was starting to get antsy; he hated silence, it made him terribly nervous. Man, Styx thought to himself, I haven't been this quiet since, well, ever. I wish he would say something. Vegas sat there, poker faced. The jay had burned down to a roach so Styx flicked it into the car's change cup. After about five more blocks into the Mission District, Styx attempted to break the ice.  
  
"So, I guess Jefe is pretty anxious to meet you."  
  
Vegas sat looking straight ahead, not offering a response.  
  
"Word is you're some sort of hardass from Liberty. That right? I've heard some things about you."  
  
Vegas did not budge. Man, what is this dude's problem? He couldn't still be pissed off about forcibly being taken to meet Lobo, could he? Naw, no way. I had to show him that I was for real, not some pussy ass mark. Yeah. Shit was totally necessary.  
  
"Like, they're supposed to call you "Fido"?" Styx chuckled. "How in the hell did you get that nickname?"  
  
Vegas studied his hands.  
  
"C'mon, man, I'm really interested. I've heard some stories. Like that you kept, uh, a kennel, and that, like, uh, if someone fucked with you, you'd sick the dogs on his ass. Yeah?"  
  
Vegas gave him a look, but mum was still the word.  
  
"Dude, at least tell me that. If nothin else. C'mon."  
  
Vegas started to crack his knuckles.  
  
"Alright, chief, I'll tell you why some call me Fido, but I want you to tell me something in return. Tit for tat, so they say."  
  
"Okay, what do you want to know?"  
  
"Lemme see your piece."  
  
Styx threw his head back and laughed.  
  
"You want to see my gat? You're fucking crazy. No way I'm gonna give you a loaded gun. Nuh-uh."  
  
"So take out the clip, Einstein."  
  
Styx considered this. A unloaded pistol? He could still try to whip me with it, but then again, I do have my slapjack in my jacket pocket. I'm covered here, and if it will make this baby happy, why not? Styx pulled over on the corner of 8th and Stone then killed the engine. He felt inside his jacket and pulled an almost-new Beretta nine-millimeter. He popped the clip then handed the gun over to Vegas, hilt first. Vegas turned the gun over, looking it over at different angles, feeling the way it felt gripped in his palm.  
  
"Pretty nice, eh?" Styx said, trying to impress.  
  
"Yeah, but-"  
  
In a flash, Vegas stuck the barrel against Styx's temple.  
  
"What do you think you're doing? The shit's empty, ya fuck!"  
  
Vegas flicked back the hammer.  
  
"Forget about the bullet in the throat?"  
  
Styx paused for a beat.  
  
"You're dreaming." Styx finally managed.  
  
"Bullshit. You just showed me your face card, little man. If someone is pointing an unloaded gun at me, I'd throw down. But if a domeshot is one pull of the finger away, you gotta be cool."  
  
Fuck.  
  
"One shot's all I need, champ. Remember that. Now we're gonna play a little game of Q&A. First, why don't you grab that wheel with both hands, so you're not tempted to maybe grab something from your shitty looking coat and make me shoot you in the face."  
  
Damn. This is bullshit. Weed's not making me think straight. Styx sighed and wrapped both hands around the steering wheel. Fuck, he thought, how could I have forgotten about the bullet I left in the chamber?  
  
"What's your name?"  
  
"Styx. Man, put the gun down."  
  
"Why does your boss want to see me?"  
  
"Man, he wants you working for him. He's heard about your rep in Liberty. And he needs you."  
  
"For what?"  
  
"Dude, that's not really-"  
  
Vegas put a little more pressure on the barrel pushing into the side of Styx's head.  
  
"Alright, fuck! He's gonna want to help in taking out another crew! Shit, dude!"  
  
"Which set are you talking bout?"  
  
"Bunch of Russians."  
  
"And?"  
  
"That's it! That's all I know!" Styx was worn out. "He doesn't exactly tell me much."  
  
Vegas gave him a stare, one that made Styx breathe a heavier, and his stomach dropped to his toes.  
  
"Alright, Styx." Vegas smiled without showing his teeth and pulled the pistol back, then stuffing it into his waistline.  
  
"Right." Styx said, running a nervous hand through his hair. He started the Idaho back up and pulled out onto Stone, heading towards Lobo's.  
  
"Styx."  
  
"What."  
  
"You know what happened to the last person who called me Fido?"  
  
"Huh."  
  
"She doesn't say much of anything anymore."  
  
"Oh."  
  
Styx sulked the remainder of the ride to 20th and wondered how Jefe was going to handle this one. 


	6. Status Quo

"I want you to kill Vladmir Makar."  
  
I sloshed Rico Lobo's expensive tequilia in his fancy glass and kept my poker face straight. His office was sparse, spartan, but i liked it. He was the sort of man that didn't have to impress people with material possesions, which was admirable. Not quite my style, but admirable all the same. I tried to read Lobo's expression; nothing there. Although I knew he was apprehensive; he had to be. I wanted to make the man sweat. After all, I knew as soon as he proposed the hit that I would take it, but I didn't have to let him know it.  
  
Of course he didn't just come out and say it. The cat was pretty smooth. Asking me about my plane ride over, what I thought of his fair city, how my time in Liberty was. Idle chit-chat, just waiting to lay it on me. I'll have to admit that Lobo suprised me with his knowledge of my exploits. He knew all about my involvement with the Leone family, my dealings with the Yakuza, jobs I pulled for Donald Love, and most importantly, how I settled the score with a certain Columbian cunt; someone sure did their homework. Styx was sitting in the corner, studying his hands. Little prick. I wondered how he came to consort with the likes of Lobo. He seemed like a little pencil neck white bread gopher peon. But they do say that appearances are deceiving, don't they?  
  
Lobo broke it down for me. San Andreas was primarily run by two warring factions: Lobo's set, and Makar's. Makar ran a prostitution ring out of his swanky euro-trash club, The Red Star. He also dabbled in the sales of narcotics. I pressed Lobo for a little bit of info, but didn't want to push it. Lobo let on that he was in the bussiness of "distribution". I scoffed at this. It could've been Spank, it could've been blow, it could've been just about anything, I really didn't care much. I asked what having control of San Andreas was worth to him.  
  
"One million dollars." He said through a cloud of Mexicali cigar smoke.  
  
I threw back my head and laughed. Lobo laughed along with me. He was testing me.  
  
"You're kidding, right?"  
  
Lobo kept a stone face.  
  
"Mr. Lobo-"  
  
"You may call me Jefe."  
  
"Awright, Jefe. I made a million dollars in a month in Liberty driving taxis and playing with RC cars. Gotta up the ante, chief."  
  
"Fair enough. I'm always open for negotiation. Another drink?"  
  
Knock, knock. Two raps on Lobo's door. Styx looked up, like snapping out of a daze. Lobo stared at me.  
  
"Expecting someone?" I said.  
  
"Yes?" Lobo bellowed at the oak door.  
  
No reply. The silence was followed by two more knocks on the door. Lobo opened a drawer behind his desk and pushed a button. He leaned into the drawer and spoke into it.  
  
"Joel. I thought I instructed you not to disturb me while I was with our new associate."  
  
Dead static.  
  
"Joel?" Lobo didn't sound afraid, but the man was definately alarmed.  
  
Knock, knock.  
  
Lobo opened another drawer and extracted a double barrelled Remington, laying it on his desk. Something was definately up. I wondered if this was maybe another test. Lobo rose and walked around the desk, placing a hand on my shoulder, indicating something to me. He walked to the wall by the door, shotgun in hand. I pulled out Styx's gat, and followed suit. Styx was up, holding up the wall, but on the other side of the door.  
  
"Open it, Angelo." Jefe commanded. Styx had lost his petulant snot nose demeanor. It looked like someone had poured a ton of fresh guts down his throat; the dude almost looked hard. He nodded and put a hand on the knob, twisting it slowly. Jefe racked his gun, and Styx threw the door ajar.  
  
Heavy Set fell through the doorway into Lobo's office, face first. His body hit the deck, a series of bullet holes in his back. Fuckin A, I thought.  
  
"Holy shit!" Styx exclaimed.  
  
A well dressed gent did a forward rolled into the room. We watched him roll past us and come out of his summersault, kneeling down, pisol drawn. He immediately peppered shots into Jefe's desk chair, like he thought that Lobo was going to be sitting in it. I don't think he realized that he was shooting at nothing until it was too late. The dapper fuck peered over his shoulder as the thunder of Lobo's Remington filled our world. His head was vaporized above the nose. Dapper slumped down, as Lobo rack his gun, shell popping out onto the floor. Jesus. Two more designer clad lemmings charged through the door, guns blazing. Instinctively, I got down and gave them a little something to think about, tagging one in the neck and the other a couple times in his upper torso, emptying Styx's clip into them. Three down, how many more to go, I thought wildly. Then a little metal ball was tossed into the room, just to spice things up. It seemed to be missing a pin.  
  
Fuck.  
  
Using absolutely none of my brains and utilizing pretty much all of my balls, I chased after it. I snatched the granade up, and chucked it out Lobo's only window, roughly at the speed of light. It exploded almost immediately after sailing into the San Andreas night. Shards of glass flew everywhere. I tried to shield myself, but I was slashed up pretty nice. Now I looked over my shoulder, much like our late dapper friend, to face the barrel of a .45 pointing at me. The man holding it was now standing the doorway, also dressed to the nines. Damn. If nothing else, these cats knew where to shop. Nice shades too.  
  
Suddenly, two hands yanked the fuck from his flank and slammed him into the wall. He dropped his piece and his pretty little sunglasses shook askew. Styx pulled his fists back and pelted him with a flurry of hooks and crosses, pelting the fucker with combos that Roy Jones Jr. would've been proud of. I rolled to the side and watched this display of allout fisticuffs. Styx kneed the asshole in the crotch then kayed him with a solid uppercut as he was doubled over. A healthy sounded crunch of broken bones resinated though Jefe's office like a gunshot. Still in a frenzy, Styx knelt over the dude and continued to sock the life out of him, greasy hair flying everywhere, Styx now in the open doorway. I waited for Styx to be torn apart by more fire, but the bullets never came. I guess whoever these men were, they thought that four would do the job. Styx gave the unlucky well dressed cat a final blow to the head and stood up, brushing off his ratty ass leather jacket. I got up and peeked out the doorway. Nothing. Down the stairs. Nobody. The joint was clear, so I walked back into Lobo's office. Jefe was knelt over, examining one of the fallen hitmen.  
  
"Where'd you learn to throw like that?" I asked Styx, genuinely surprised. He must've registered my amazement, cause the cocky swagger was back, now at full blast.  
  
"Golden Gloves, Washington state, '95 and '96." He threw a couple more punches into the air. "Looks like I still got it, bro."  
  
"Yeah, I've seen better." I lied. I turned to Lobo. "Who were these jokers?"  
  
Lobo grabbed the wool clad arm of one of the dead and yanked on the fabric, exposing the wrist. There was a black tattoo there, the emblem of a psyth and star visable.  
  
"This is Makar's logo. These were his men." Lobo spit on the body. "They were sent to kill me."  
  
Styx kicked over the late Heavy Set, otherwise known as Joel. An expression of angush was plastered on Heavy Set's face for eternity. Poor dude. He seemed cool. After all, he busted Styx's balls when we came in. Shame.  
  
"Darwin's rule, maiz." Styx laughed.  
  
"Calle te." Lobo sternly asserted. He turned to me. "Well? What is it going to be then, Vegas Minor of Liberty?"  
  
I had yanked out a Lucky Strike and lit up.  
  
"Three million, and this Russian shitball is an obituary. This has now ventured into the realm of personal business. I don't like being shot at. He's going to pay for this. Believe it."  
  
A smile broke across the face of Rico "Jefe" Lobo.  
  
"Muy bien. Bueno suerte. But I don't think you'll need it."  
  
"Fuckin A i won't. Where should I start?"  
  
"Vegas," Lobo said, "I thought you would never ask."  
  
So we got down to it. 


	7. Aces Over Jacks

I like playing cards. Some games are fun for shits and giggles; twenty- one, pai-gow, Spanish, but those games rely on playing the odds, knowing the rules, and hoping for the best. Poker is where the real action is at. The game actually takes three things that I pride myself on having an abundance of: skill, luck, and moxie. It's been a couple monthes since I'd sat down and took a group of suckers for all they had. I'd lurk around at Kenji's, preying on marks such as wide eyed tourists and lowlevel con men. So when Lobo told me that one of Makar's top lieutenants frequented a card hall, needless to say, I was amped. Styx and I were back in his pos Idaho, now speeding out of the Mission District..  
  
"His name is Nikita Kiniski. Ruthless, cunning, and fat." Lobo had showed me a newspaper clipping of a big dude walking down the steps of a courthouse, surrounded by the press. "One of Makar's top men. He has been charged more times than he can count, but never aquitted. Much of that has to do with that man." Standing next to Kiniski and shielding the man from a throng of reporters in the clipping was a tall, spiderly looking guy with beady bespecticled eyes. "His name is Lawson Graves III" Lobo continued, "one of San Andreas most successful criminal lawyers. He could've aquitted O.J. in a month and a half, tops. Eliminating these men are the keys to cracking Makar's crime syndicate." We got got onto the highway and I asked Styx where the closest Amuunation was. If we were going to walk into the lion's den, we'd have to be loaded for bear.  
  
Stepping into San Andreas' Ammunation was like coming home of some sorts. There's just something about a gun shop that does something to me. All those firearms, all those means of destruction. Almost gives me a hardon. Lobo had given us a per diem of a couple gees, peeling off benjamins from a mammouth wad of green from his desk. Styx and I walked over to the handgun case. A man with a severe hairlip was standing behind the counter, hunched over a skin magazine. I placed a few bills on top of a set of brozed tittes and he looked up. He told us permit would not be necessary and the waiting period sure as hell could be waived.  
  
We left the store carrying enough steel and plastic to outfit a small army. Styx bought a pair of .38s and a pump action shotgun, and I had a several glocks and a nice looking Desert Eagle 50 magnum pistol, along with a few holsters each. Styx suggested we bring along a couple of kevlar vests and I agreed; my pops was fond of saying that a man could never be too prepared. He was a military man and always thought that whatever could go wrong, will go wrong. He lived to the ripe old age of 34, dying in the field, so I guess he was right after all. The spot was about ten minutes away, and I decided to ask a little bit about my new longhaired partner.  
  
"So you were a boxer." I said, not really a question. Styx was puffing on a jay, and coughed out some smoke.  
  
"Yeah, fought welterweight. Forty-three wins, two losses, thirty-six by way of knockout. I boxed primarily out of Seattle. That's where I'm from." Styx offered me the roach, but i shook my head.  
  
"Where you hail from, Vegas?"  
  
"Not Seattle."  
  
"Hmmph. Probably Nevada. Yeah, I was thinking about goin pro, but I hadda couple complications."  
  
"Knock some philly up, huh."  
  
Styx laughed.  
  
"Shit, bro, I wouldn't let some shit like that ruin my game. Matter of fact, I'm sure theres a couple little Angelos running around as we speak. Rubbers are for pussies."  
  
"Hah. Tell it to Magic and Wilt. So what was the deal."  
  
Styx put a hand on his left eye and squeezed. Then the fuck pulled out his eyeball. He pinched it with his thumb and forefinger and held out a glass eye in front of me. I recoiled, and pushed his wrist back.  
  
"What the fuck! So you lost an eye.you don't have to show me what it looks like! Christ."  
  
"After I won my second Golden Gloves, I was in a bar getting sloshed and celebrating, pullin some fine lookin chicks, shootin the shit, y'know how it is. The guy I knocked out in the finals was there too. With a spiked set of brass knucks. Pussy sucker punched me, crushing my left retina. I thought it wouldn't matter, but I lost my next two fights. Motherfuckers sneaking some killer hooks to my blind spot. I knew my career was over, so I got out."  
  
"Aww, poor baby."  
  
"Fuck you, man. I was good. I could've contended."  
  
"Yeah, I'm sure, Balboa."  
  
"I didn't see your ass complaining when I saved it back at Jefe's."  
  
"Hey, now we're even. Is this it up here?" We had arrived a half a block down from a large stone building.  
  
"Yeah. Let's do this."  
The photo didn't nearly do Nikita Kiniski justice. Saying he was fat was like saying that politicians were only minorly corrupt . The man was polar bear, thick fingers holding five cards and a Cuban cigar. Toby's Card Hall was a nice looking joint. The hall's front was filled with expenive looking sofas and easy chairs moving towards several tables, currently empty, on the floor and a wide bar on the side. A set of restrooms were in the back down a hallway along with doors leading to locations unknown. Almost everyone in the room was dressed much like Makar's hit squad; Giorgio Armani seemed to be a favorite. Styx got knocked out of the game early, according to plan, and now sat at the bar nursing a bottle of Budweiser. A couple more heavies sat close to him, an older gent sporting a black bow tie stood behind the bar polishing glasses. The barkeep doubled as a cashier, and was the one that traded us our chips. It was me, the fat man, and a guy in a panama hat left playing.  
  
Styx and I walked into the card hall and got right to business. The game was five-card, one draw, hundred dollar ante. This was no nickel and dime, but it didn't bother me at all. When the pressure is high, and the heat is on, most tend to fold. That's the way I like it. Before entering, I told Styx he would be playing the part of 'the sucker'. I almost told him that he probably wouldn't have any problems playing his part to a T, but held my tongue. The jokes could wait; we had bussiness at hand.  
  
Kiniski was a really good poker player. The strategy in the game is not to read the cards, but rather the player. From the moment I sat down, I could read these cats like a second grade book. The dude wearing the Ray-Bans twitched his right eye when his hand was shit, and the man with the handlebar mustache licked his lips excessively when his cards were good. Panama Hat was a knuckle cracker, but kept it in check for the most part, which was why he was still in the game. Some of these things are tough to spot to the untrained eye, but some got it, and others lose money. Kiniski, on the other hand, was impossible to read. The others tried to be erratic in their bluffing, snorting and guffawing, oversighing and tittering, but beneath it all, their tells were obvious. However, Kiniski's expression didn't change a single time.  
  
The pot was a little over fourteen grand, Panama Hat putting it all on the line. He called, and flipped over his cards. Three sevens. I smiled and uncovered my straight. Then, like clockwork, Kiniski showed us his straight flush and raked in the chips. Damn. Panama Hat bowed out and stepped over to the bar.  
  
"And then, there was two." I mused out loud. Kiniski just regarded me with a look of fascination and disgust mixed together. It was quite a look. I hadn't seen it that often.  
  
"You're quite a player, Mr..."  
  
"Minor. Vegas Minor. You aren't too bad yourself." I didn't mind telling these clowns who I was. It wasn't like they'd tell anybody else, other than their maker.  
  
"Years of practice, boy, years of practice."  
  
The game continued for a little while longer, till I decided to make my push. I rose the pot, putting it all in, my stacks of high society totaling at least thirty thousand. I liked my hand. It could've been a winner. Didn't really matter, cause I was prepared to end the charade. I made sure Styx was paying attention to me pushing my entire bankroll into the pot. He knew the drill. Kiniski called. I turned over my cards.  
  
Three aces over a pair of jacks. Beat that, fatass.  
  
Kiniski finally broke his straight face, and showed me his yellow teeth. Four kings and a nine. The fat lady belted out a song, and I extended my hand, but Kiniski waved it off. I pushed off from the table and showed the man my back. Man I was going to enjoy this. I reached into my jacket and pulled out a pair of plastic pistols then unloaded on the fat fuck. He was counting his winnings as the bullets sliced through his body, his face full of surprise. He cried out and flew backwards, his portly frame knocking over the table that he landed on. It was on.  
  
The dudes sitting at the bar whipped out their sidearms and pointed them at me. Styx had my back, and blew them away, double fisted doling out fire. Panama Hat got hit in the throat as he tried to flee out the door. Blood shot out from his neck, and and collapsed in a pile by the entrance. The bartender dissapeared behind the bar; probably didn't want to become a holy bartender, which was understandable. I popped in a few new clips the pair of men standing guard outside ran into the bar, stepping over Panama Hat, gunning for me. Styx and I blasted them, as they dropped like sacks of potatoes. That's when I felt three slugs slam into my back. I hit the floor, dazed. I rolled over and looked at the celing, breathing in gasps. I heard a scuffle, and a few gunshots by the bar, then something slumping to the ground. Styx was then kneeling in front of me.  
  
"Told you the kevlar would be a good idea." He said, pulling me up. His ratty jacket was torn in a few places "That fucker with the bow tie hit you. But I don't think he'll be mixing drinks anytime soon. Fucker cut up my jacket though. Maaaaaan, its ruined!"  
  
"Thanks. I can't really tell the difference, but I think he did you a favor. Let's check the back."  
  
We walked, side by side towards the card hall's back hallway. One of the doors popped open and arm holding an uzi poked out, bullets spraying in our general direction. Styx jumped out of the way and I knelt down, aiming at the arm. I tagged the dude and his shooting stopped as the body connected to the arm fell into the hallway, the man screaming in agony. I put him out of his misery with a bullet sandwich. I slowly walked into the hallway when another body leapt out from the same side doorway, a teenaged kid, probably not old enough to vote, wearing an oversized basketball jersey faced me, frozen like a deer in the headlights. I squeezed my triggers, but was rewarded with clicks. Empty! The kid raced down the hallway, and was gone by the time I had reloaded. Styx started to pursue, but I held out my arm.  
  
"Let him go. He got away and deserves to live. It's just a kid anyways. Get the cash from behind the bar and lets get the fuck out of here."  
  
Styx did as I told him and I walked over to the lifeless body of Nikita Kiniski. He was laying in a pool of his own blood, tongue hanging out of his mouth. I kicked him over and felt his back pockets for a wallet. It was there. I snatched it up and put it in my jacket pocket. Might be useful for later. Styx came back with a huge box full of cash. Then we bounced.  
  
Walking outside, Styx had taken off his jacket and thrown it to the ground. The wind had picked up and carried the tattered remnants of his jacket down the block. We made our way to Styx's Idaho, and I waited while Styx unlocked the doors, hit teeth chattering audibly.  
  
"Colder than a witch's titty out here. Fock, man!"  
  
Styx had saved my ass twice now, and I thought I could at least show him that I was somewhat thankful. I pulled off my leather coat and tossed it over the car roof at Styx. He caught it, surprised.  
  
"Go on. I need a new one anyways. The holes in the back give it character."  
  
Styx pulled my bomber styled leather on and shook it around, getting a feel for it.  
  
"Nice jacket. Warm too. Thanks, bro."  
  
"Don't mention it. Now let's cut. Now."  
  
We got in the car and I peeled off my kevlar vest, running my fingertips over the slugs in its back as we sped away. 


	8. Fled

"That's it? You're kidding me, right?"  
  
Colby Carter looked at the pile of bills that the severe looking dude, an ugly man named Norton, had put in his hand.   
  
It was a nice pile, but not in the eyes of Colby. To Colby it looked like shit. Norton closed the tackle box, like a fisherman   
  
would use. Colby, a seventeen year old black kid from the SA Projects, gave the ugly dude a look. Try to stare him down,  
  
put the fear in him. Norton sneezed some phlem into his hanky and put the box away.  
  
"That's all you deserve this month, kiddo. Sales are down, that means revenue is down, which further means not as   
  
many bucks for you. You should know that."  
  
"Fuck you. Revenues? Shit, blood. I've been putting the product on the streets as much as before, you know this.   
  
I've just had to be more careful, pigs are cracking down. It's tough."  
  
"Boo fucking hoo. That kind of sounds like your problem, not mine."  
  
Colby softened his glare, tried to approach it a different way.  
  
"Dude, you gotta feel me on this. I'm putting my ass on the line for you and your boss. I got shit to take care of. I   
  
gotta payrent, my girl's gotta feed my daughter, and I need to stay fitted. I got a rep on these streets needs to be upheld.   
  
Show them punks that I'm it. Numba one stunna, no doubt. Feel me?"  
  
Norton leaned back in his chair, making it squeak under his weight. He shook his head, wasn't going to budge.  
  
"Too bad. Sell more, get more. Else go work at a Wendy's, sling some burgers, work the drive-thru"  
  
Colby sneered and threw up his hands. He walked over to another chair in the tiny back room of Toby's Card Hall   
  
and slumped down, resigned. The ice on his body contrasted the color of his skin, his authentic oversized Sin City Sabrecats  
  
jersey hanging loose on his lanky body. Colby counted the pile of Benjamins in his hand, muttering to himself. Pushing   
  
for Vladimir Makar could afford to keep him style, but it was just getting too much of a hassle. Getting shook down by the   
  
pigs, having to keep his turf in check, always carrying heavy, risking his life. Colby's final count was forty-seven hundred,   
  
ten percent. Fuckin chickenfeed. Colby pulled a toothpick from his pocket and started to play with his teeth.  
  
"You sure on that?" Colby said "No more than this?"   
  
Norton, polishing his bifocals with his shirtsleeve, stopped, put them back on, and looked Colby in the face.  
  
"What part of 'sell more, get more' do you not understand? You fucking jig. Did you even make it to high school?   
  
Christ, all you darkies are all the same."  
  
Screw this racist motherfucker, Colby thought to himself, I need to get paid. Norton went back to reading some   
  
papers or whatever on his desk and Colby reached behind his back to pull his piece, a slick looking Armas RA5 Uzi machine   
  
pistol. He pointed it at the dude, holding it sideways.  
  
"Get your box back out. We ain't done." Toothpick sticking out of the side of his mouth.  
  
"Stick that six pound piece of shit back in your britches before you piss me off, kid." Norton said, barely looking up   
  
from his work, not taking Colby seriously. Colby advanced, sticking the gun right next to the man's temple.  
  
"I want whats due, right fucking now, or you're deader than Pac."  
  
The dude looked over, almost smiling.  
  
"You ain't got the stones, jig."  
  
The stones? Oh, fuckin A. Colby squeezed the trigger, expecting the severe looking dude's head to explode, but   
  
only heard clicks. With a speed not even hinted before, the man snatched the gun from Colby's grip then backhanded him   
  
across the lips. Colby hit the deck, the back of his hand going to his mouth, tasting a little bit of blood. The dude stood over   
  
him, holding the Uzi, pointing to a part of the gun.  
  
"See this? It's called a safety. You really are dumber than you look. Jesus Christ, do you know who I am? Who I   
  
work for? Course you do, you just don't care. You're just a greedy, stupid little nig. You know what happens to greedy,   
  
stupid little nigs?" The dude aimed the Armas at Colby. Colby threw his hands in front of his face, and heard gunfire, just   
  
not in the little back room of Toby's Card Hall.  
  
The action was out in front.  
  
The dude's head snapped up, and he made a funny face. He picked up the phone on the desk, and started dialing   
  
numbers. Colby sat up, rubbing his jaw, looking towards the wall to which he heard more guns go off behind. The severe   
  
looking dude started bellowing shit into the receiver, then hung up. The gunfire paused, started up again, then stopped again.  
  
Colby could hear voices, two people talking, and footsteps approaching. Norton went to the door, opened it, and stuck his   
  
gun toting arm out, spraying the hallway with lead. Colby heard some shots, then Norton screaming, falling from the back   
  
room into the hallway. More footsteps. Then four shots. Norton quit screaming.  
  
Colby licked his lips and swallowed. He had to get out. Staying in this little room would be like shooting fish in a   
  
barrel. His eyes wandered to the tackle box, brimming with cash, cash that could set him up forever, cash that would let   
  
him get off the streets, quit hustling, start a new life. Colby got up, and took a step to the tackle box, when he heard more   
  
steps coming closer now.   
  
What the fuck am I doing, Colby thought. Get out, nigga!  
  
Colby darted into the hallway to come face to face with Norton's assailant. He was a hard looking man, his face   
  
rugged, a little cut up from something. The man wore a leather jacket, bomber styled, and a set of green khaki cargo pants.   
  
Colby saw his eyes, the color of mud, then checked out the pair of pistols the dude had, pointed at him. Colby was in a   
  
state of paralysis. His mind told him to go! go! go! but his legs felt like they were caught in cement.  
  
Click, click! The man in front of him was empty. Hearing those empty rounds trying to go off set Colby in motion.   
  
He tore down the hallway, sprinting like his 'fro was on fire and his ass was catching, hearing clips inserted, guns being   
  
reloaded, then kicked open the door leading to the back alley. Colby kept running, not looking behind him, just running,   
  
getting the fuck out. He got to a couple blocks down then doubled over, gasping for air.   
  
Did what happen just really happen? Colby started walking down the street, looking over his shoulder to see a beat   
  
up Idaho tearing away from Toby's Card Hall. Oh shit, this is big. What now? Colby took out his Nokia, and dialed   
  
information.  
  
"What city?" The voice on the other end said.  
  
"San Andreas. The Red Star."  
  
***  
  
  
  
Colby sat in a plush black leather easy chair, holding a glass of club soda, stirring it with his straw, trying to   
  
remember everything. Vladimir Makar sat opposite him, legs crossed, well dressed but wearing an anxious expression.   
  
"Again, it's good that you came here. Very wise. You did the right thing, now tell me again: who was this man?"  
  
Colby took a drink and looked at his feet. The man had very nice carpet in his office.  
  
"Colby." Makar said.  
  
"Yeah, I've never seen him before. But he looked like a bad motherfucker."  
  
"What did he look like?"  
  
"I thin- well, I- I can't exactly remember, it all happened so fast, mista Makar, I just-"  
  
Makar nodded to the designer clad thug on Colby's flank.  
  
"Serg. Help Colby remember."  
  
Serg pulled a .45, then hit the hammer.  
  
"All right! All right!"  
  
Colby told Makar what happened in the back room of the card hall, leaving out the whole uzi business. He really   
  
couldn't remember what the hard dude looked like, all he could see were those guns pointed at him and the old fashioned   
  
leather jacket he wore. Serg put his gun away.   
  
"And he drove off in an Idaho. A really shitty one. That's all I got, mista Makar. I thought he was gonna blow me   
  
away!"  
  
"Colby, you did right. Now go out and see the man in front, he'll take you where ever you need to go."  
  
"Mista Makar? I, uh, never got paid either. I was hoping that-"  
  
"Fine. Tell the man in front, the man you talked to when you came in."   
  
Colby smiled and got up.  
  
"Thanks, mista Makar."  
  
Makar smiled as Colby left the office. Serg closed the door.  
  
"Tell Boris to take young mister Carter out to the kennels. Find out what he really knows, and doesn't. And have   
  
the gentleman drive by Toby's with some gasoline. The front is bust." Serg nodded and left the room. Makar looked over to   
  
the side of the office by the bookcase. Katrina sat, smoking a cigarette, looking sultry and dangerous.  
  
"When we find out who he is, it is your responsibility to deal with him. Contact our man in Lobo's organization, find   
  
out about that Idaho."  
  
Katrina nodded, then stubbed out her cigarette in an ashtray. She rose and left the office. Makar watched her   
  
leave, then picked up the phone.   
  
"Get me Graves."  
  
NEXT:  
  
CHAPTER 9---SHALLOW GRAVES 


	9. Shallow Graves

CHAPTER 9---SHALLOW GRAVES  
  
SNIP!  
  
  
  
Lawson Graves III cut off the tip of his Cuban cigar, then placed it in his mouth, using   
  
the antique table lighter to set it ablaze. He puffed out clouds of gray smoke and sat   
  
back in his giant sized leather seat, so large in comparison to his relatively thin frame.   
  
Graves wasn't a compulsive cigar smoker, like some of his contemporaries. For some odd   
  
reason, almost every successful San Anderas criminal defense lawyer had a penchant for   
  
cigars. Graves never really gave it much thought, just took it as an odd coincidence.   
  
The only times that Graves indulged in his contraband Castros were only after tremendous   
  
sex or when he was incredibly nervous. This occasion fell into the latter category.  
  
Five minutes previous, Vladimir Makar had phoned in. Graves wasn't expecting a call from   
  
the notorious San Andreas crime boss he certainly didn't expect an angry call from the   
  
notorious San Andreas crime boss. Apparently one of Makar's fronts had been busted up,   
  
and there was the possibility that San Andreas' finest could be snooping though the   
  
wreckage and turning up credible evidence to place the racketeering charges. Of course,   
  
being charged was no big thing, charges came and went, but nothing ever stuck; Graves saw   
  
to that. But still, Makar sounded very concerned, which made Graves very concerned.  
  
  
  
Graves spun his seat around to face the San Andreas skyline visible through his wall   
  
length office window. The city was lit up like a set of candles in a church, lights   
  
flashing everywhere. Graves checked his diamond studded Rolex. The time read 11:57. It   
  
was just about that time, and Graves desperately felt the need to relax. He'd deal with   
  
Makar and his troubles tomorrow, first thing in the morning. He picked up the phone   
  
again, and hit the number 9 on speed-dial. Buttons rapidly beeped in his ear and the   
  
line started ringing.  
  
  
  
"Yes?" a husky voiced female answered.  
  
  
  
"I'd like to speak to Veronica."  
  
  
  
"Oh, Veronica is out right now with a client. She should be back in a few-"  
  
  
  
"Impossible. I had made an appointment for twelve-thirty and I'm calling to confirm.   
  
She's there. Check again."  
  
  
  
"Well then," the voice replied, sounding a little bored, "I already did. She's not   
  
around. Who did you say this was, again?"  
  
  
  
Graves puffed on his cigar.  
  
  
  
"I didn't. Get Veronica. Now."  
  
  
  
"Listen, mister, there's no reason to get snippy with me, I told you that she is gone and-"  
  
  
  
"This is GRAVES, you stupid bitch. Now go get her."  
  
  
  
"Oh."  
  
  
  
Graves heard the receiver being set down and subtle noise in the background. He waited,   
  
opened up his desk drawer and pulled out a bottle of Johnnie Walker. Graves unscrewed the   
  
cap and tipped it back, smacking his lips after tasting the sweet bourbon. Soon, a   
  
high-pitched voice came on the other line.  
  
  
  
"Lawson? That you, honey?"  
  
  
  
"That's right. What's the deal with the runaround."  
  
  
  
"Oh, that's just Candy. She's new. I don't think she recognized your voice. Sorry, babe,  
  
I didn't mean for you-"  
  
  
  
"Have her replaced."  
  
  
  
"Lawson?"  
  
  
  
"I mean it. Tell Marilyn. I want her gone."  
  
  
  
Veronica sighed.  
  
  
  
"Okay, baby, whatever you want. So are we still on for tonight?"  
  
  
  
"Bet your sweet-ass we are. Park-View Hotel, thirty minutes."  
  
"Ohh, I can't wait babe. I've been thinking about you all day."  
  
  
  
"Why."   
  
Graves could hear her smiling on the other end.  
  
  
  
"You know why."  
  
  
  
"Tell me."  
  
  
  
"Because. Because I want you...to fuck my brains out. With that big dick of yours. I   
  
want you to kick my legs up and-"  
  
  
  
"Listen, save the shop talk for main event. I want you to wear that blue teddy. The one   
  
with the ruffles. Understand?"  
  
  
  
"Uh-huh. Yeah, I get you."  
  
  
  
"Thirty minutes."  
  
  
  
"I'll be waiting, baby." Veronica squeaked into the phone and then hung up.  
  
  
  
Graves replaced the phone back into its cradle and took another pull off of the bottle.   
  
Veronica was one of Marilyn's finest girls. A sweet looking nineteen-year old brunette   
  
toting the tone body of an athlete and a pair of pouty lips that were made for kissing   
  
things. He pushed off and started gathering his things. Graves snatched a few blocks of   
  
legal pads, some computer disks, a gram on cocaine crammed into metallic vial, his cell   
  
phone and laptop then placed them into his briefcase, snapping it shut. He got up and   
  
shut the lights off in his office, making his way though the door, past the reception   
  
area, towards the elevators. Graves pushed the button for the parking lot, still puffing   
  
on the Cuban. The doors parted and he stepped inside, letting the lift whisk him to the   
  
ground floor.  
  
  
  
Graves stepped out of the elevator and looked around. The parking structure was almost   
  
empty, save for a few cars. He briskly walked across the lot towards his vehicle, a 2004   
  
cherry-red Infernus. His footfalls clacked audibly against the concrete, the shine of his   
  
imported shoes gleaming, almost capable of blinding someone who started at them for too   
  
long. Graves made his way to the car and his the locking mechanism attached to his set of   
  
keys, making a "boop-beep!" sound. Graves opened door, placed his briefcase on the   
  
passenger seat, then placed the keys into the ignition when a pair of hands grabbed his   
  
neck from behind, putting a vice grip on his larynx. Graves made a funny sound, the cigar   
  
dropping his mouth into his lap.  
  
  
  
Graves started to thrash about, his hands clawing at those that were draining his lungs of   
  
oxygen, but it was no use. The fingers has dug deep into the thin flesh of Graves' throat,  
  
squeezing his Adam's apple. Graves' eyes started to bug out, and he could feel the   
  
breath of his assailant hot against the nape of his neck. To Graves, his vision was   
  
starting blur, everything began to lose its color as he struggled to breath, but could   
  
not. He whipped his head back and fourth, causing his John-Lennon styled wire rims to   
  
shake off, and he started to lose his vigor, feeling his strength sapping from his body as   
  
the world began to get swimmy. Graves' Cuban cigar had began to smolder into his   
  
expensive designer slacks, as he made a few more peculiar noises of death, then went limp.  
  
  
  
***  
  
Vegas withdrew his hands from Graves neck and waited. Graves slumped down in his seat,   
  
devoid of life. Vegas noticed something smoking in the lap of the dead man. He leaned   
  
over and saw it was the last third of a fine looking cigar. He plucked it from below and   
  
ran it under his nose. Cuban, no doubt. He took a few puffs, and indulged the sweet   
  
flavor as the buzz from the cigar instantly hit is senses. Clenching the Cuban in his   
  
teeth, he opened up the driver side door, causing the dome light to come on. Vegas pushed   
  
open the seat and got out, and took a look at Graves; he was dead alright.   
  
  
  
Vegas leaned over, pulled the keys from the ignition, yanked Graves out of the Infernus.   
  
Vegas hauled him around the trunk, noting how incredibly light he was, opened it up, then   
  
unceremoniously dumped him in. He shut the trunk and got back into the Infernus, a trail   
  
of cigar smoke following him. When inside, he grabbed the suitcase, and forced it open,   
  
bringing out Graves' cell phone the Dell laptop. He opened it up, a glow of the screen   
  
illuminating his face. He started to root though the files, and then he smiled. It was   
  
there, all of it. He closed the lap, put the keys into the ignition, hearing the powerful   
  
engine roar to life. Vegas pulled out, and drove out of the parking structure. While   
  
driving down the road, flipped open the cell phone; he had a certain call he had to   
  
return…   
  
NEXT: CHAPTER 10---LUCK BE A LADY TONIGHT 


	10. Luck Be a Lady Tonight

Katrina Makar sat inside of her luxury class Lexus, took a drag from her Virginia Slim, then looked out the window. The apartment complex was a scummy building on a scummy block in the middle of a scummy part of town. The beat up late model Idaho was parked on the other side of the street, cracked and dented. Katrina wondered why one of Liberty's most notorious gangsters would want to dwell in such a place as this but then shrugged it off. In all of her twenty-six years the one thing she had learned for certain was that men usually didn't follow the proper process of thought. It was always something or another that drove them to do what they did. Their pride, their passion, but never their intellect. She checked her makeup and lipstick in the rear view mirror, opened the door, then emerged from the car.  
  
She shivered and felt goose bumps after feeling the brisk San Andreas night air hit her body, a body not dressed for warmth. Her gray wool turtleneck shirt was didn't feel too wooly and her thin leather skirt didn't do much to combat the weather. Katrina peeked into her purse and made sure her artillery was there, a Walter PPK attached with a silencer, a girl's best friend. She crossed the street and made her way to the building's entrace, four inch stiletto heels clacking against the concrete. The intercom was busted, but it didn't matter; the door was already slightly open. Katrina took it as a sign that this was going to be easier than expected. She stepped inside.  
  
  
  
Makar's contact in Lobo's organization was a fat slow-witted lonely little man with a big nose. In the past, he was more than willing to dump off information of Los Lobos in exchange for a little TLC from Katrina. She found it to be an equal payoff. Anyways, he was such a pathetic little worm that he never clocked in at anything past three minutes. Katrina compared the experience to something like getting one's legs waxed; unpleasureable business but absolutely necessary, and the payoff was worth it. The worm had told Katrina that the new associate from Liberty was staying at this particular apartment building, and that he wore a really sweet looking bomber-styled leather jacket.  
  
  
  
The walls of the apartment's interior were yellowed with age and looked as if they hadn't seen a coat of paint within Katrina's lifetime. She walked down the hallway and stepped into the elevator that was, to no surprise, out of order as. Katrina found the stairs, bent over and removed her stilettos, then started up them. The worm told her that he was staying on the sixth floor, corner room at the end. She wondered what he would look like. Was he going to be a hairy, weak looking man with a bad breath? Or perhaps a tall, dark fellow with beady eyes? A fat and balding soft looking gentleman wearing glasses? Or maybe it wasn't even a man at all. Katrina had seen stranger things. She reached the sixth floor and put her heels back on. Walking down the hallway, she popped a breath mint and got ready. The door number read 616. Katrina rapped her knuckles on the wood and waited.   
  
***  
  
Styx sat in front of the television, breaking up a chunk of dank off of an either larger chunk of dank. Knight Rider was the program on, but he wasn't paying much attention to it. He wondered if Hasselhoff would have to come along with KIT to the drive-thru at McDonald's. Couldn't the car talk? What would the dude be necessary for? Styx jammed a quarter-sized bud of weed inside his bong and patted pockets for his lighter. Fuck. It wasn't there. He got up off of the dingy loveseat and scanned the apartment for the James Dean Zippo lighter. The whole setup wasn't very clean, but Styx didn't give a shit. Comfort was the number one priority, and to Styx, his place was a palace. Pizza boxes and beer bottles littered the living area, with articles of clothing, skin magazines, and random smoking knickknacks strewn about the apartment. Vegas had busted his balls about it, asking him when the maid would come. At the time, Styx shrugged it off, but now thought about it. Is the place that rundown? He thought that one of these days he should get someone in here to clean the pigpen up. You never know when company will come by, unexpected.  
  
  
  
Styx wandered into the kitchen, even more trash spread out than the living room. Stepping over a large metal bicycle pump that he hadn't remember putting there, he batted away a couple of empty Chinese take-out boxes on the counter top and looked under an aged Features section of The San Andreas Examiner. No dice. Styx rubbed his ruddy chin in narrowed his eyes in thought. Then it came to him. He looked at Vegas' (his now) leather jacket and reached inside one of the pockets, feeling the cool steel of his lighter, but also something else. Styx pulled out a wallet and started thumbing through it. It was off of the fat ass dead dude that Vegas capped back at the card hall. Damn, mother fucker had a ton of shit in here. Ticket stubs, coupons, pictures of women, credit cards, pictures of more women, naked. Styx chuckled and took them out of the wallet, looking at each, girls in various poses, spread eagle, bent over assorted furniture, getting drilled in the-  
  
  
  
KNOCK! KNOCK!  
  
  
  
Styx whipped his head around and instinctively backed up, tripping over the bicycle pump in the middle of the kitchen. Arms pin wheeling and snapshots flying everywhere, Styx fell on his ass. He shouted "Fuck!" and then sat up. Who the hell would be coming by right now? It could've been Marty or Ringo, but those dumb fucks were in Berkeley for a few weeks. Maybe it was Veronica. Styx picked himself off of the dirty linoleum floor and smiled to himself. Veronica was this little dark-haired hard body that he met last month in a head shop. He said he liked the pipe she was picking out. She said thank you. He said he also liked her cutoff blue blouse. She said she liked his hair. He said his name was Angelo. She said she was Veronica but he could call her 'Ronnie. Styx smiled. She smiled right back. After lunch and four joints later, Styx was bangin' her for all she was worth. Walking towards the front door, Styx remembered that she said she was a bank teller at First National. He wondered why all bank tellers weren't as smoking' as she was. Styx grabbed the knob and opened the door. Styx's eyes widened a little at the figure standing in front of him; it wasn't 'Ronnie, but that sure as hell wasn't a bad thing. The woman standing in front of him was a raven-haired knockout, smartly dressed in a (pleather?) skirt and a form fitting gray turtleneck that mapped out the swell of her goods. Her cheekbones belonged to a model and she flashed him the pearly whites.  
  
  
  
"Hello, I'm Katrina. I'm looking for a man named Vegas. Are you him?"  
  
  
  
Whoa. Russian accent. Foreign babes are fucking freaks in the sack, Styx thought. This babe was looking for Vegas? Hmmm…  
  
***  
  
When the door opened, Katrina was a little disappointed. Of course, she wasn't expecting anything special. Usually the gangster hard asses were uglier than sin, but once, every blue moon, there was diamond in the rough. A good looking man who looks like can more than hold his own with calloused hands and dark eyes that are capable of freezing bones and melting hearts. Katrina took in the man standing in front of her. He was tall and lanky, dressed like he had just returned from a heavy metal concert, a pair of oversized aviator shades pushed up into the thick of his long, greasy looking, dirty blonde hair. He was cute, but in a seedy sort of way. She could tell that this 'Vegas Minor' was impressed by the way he looked at her, so she knew she had him. Katrina turned on the charm gave him the smile.  
  
  
  
"Hello," she said in her 'I'm-sexy-and-you-know-it" voice, "I'm Katrina. I'm looking for a man named Vegas. Are you him?" She watched him lick his lips and give her another once-over top to bottom.  
  
  
  
"You bet you're sweet ass I am, honey. Why don'tcha come on it?" he said, stepping aside beckoning her to enter. Katrina stepped inside of the apartment and was immediately disgusted. The place was filthy and vile, trash everywhere, but she acted like she didn't notice it. 'Vegas' led her inside to the living room, walking past the kitchen. Katrina noticed the bomber-styled leather jacket, complete with a few bullet holes in the back, hanging on one of the chairs; another sign. A television was turned on, an American program flashing on the screen. She found a spot on the loveseat and sat down, crossing her legs. Styx followed and took a seat next to her. He grabbed an enormous smoking apparatus that was shaped like a rocket ship and put it to his lips, lighting the marijuana with fire from a Zippo bearing the image of a sex symbol from the Hollywood of Yesteryear on it. Smoke gathered in the big part of the rocket ship and she heard the sound of water bubbling. The man sucked in the smoke and held it in, leaning back. He tipped her a wink as he exhaled, blowing neat little rings. Viyebnutsa zhopa, she thought.  
  
  
  
"So, what can I do ya for? How did you know I was staying here?"  
  
  
  
Katrina had to think for a second.  
  
  
  
"I thought that you lived here."  
  
  
  
"Oh naw, this is my buddy Angelo's pad. He's a fucking slob, that's why it's so," Styx gestured with his hands, "y'know, dirty. I keep my shit clean. You know?"  
  
  
  
"Oh, I see."  
  
  
  
"So, yeah, uh, how come you stopped by-"  
  
  
  
Katrina put her hand on Styx's leg, rubbing it a little, running it up and down his jeans. Styx looked down at what she was doing. Katrina eyes didn't leave the television.  
  
  
  
"What are you watching?"  
  
  
  
"Uh, Knight Rider."  
  
  
  
"Is it good?"  
  
  
  
Katrina started moving her hand far up on Styx's thigh.  
  
  
  
"Uh, the show?"  
  
  
  
Katrina laughed.  
  
  
  
"Yes, the show."  
  
  
  
Styx swallowed.  
  
  
  
"Oh, yeah, it's a pretty good one. KIT helps save Hasselhoff after he falls down a well, or some shit."  
  
  
  
"Mmmmm. So tell me something, 'Vegas'."  
  
  
  
Styx looked at her looking at him. She could tell his heart was beating a mile a minute. Katrina's wasn't; it was just business as usual.  
  
  
  
"How are you liking San Andreas? Finding your way around the city?" she said, squeezing Styx just under his belt buckle. She saw him smile easily.  
  
  
  
"Oh, it's nice, but I've been getting kind of lonely, you know it?"  
  
  
  
"Is that a fact?"  
  
  
  
"Yeah, it is."  
  
  
  
"Well, perhaps something can be done about that…" She said.  
  
  
  
And then Katrina pounced.  
  
***  
  
Jesus Christ, Styx thought to himself as he walked into the kitchen, naked except for pair of striped boxer shorts. That girl can work it. Styx went over to the sink and drew a glass of water from the tap, gulping it all down and breathing out of a sigh of exhaustion. Vegas must be one lucky dude, he thought, having chicks like that ready to get their freak on with him, just by his name alone? What was with that shit? Fuckin' a. Those foreign broads really are something else in bed. Styx threw the glass into the sink and looked at the fat dude's wallet on the floor. He bent over to pick it up, along with some of the pictures, when he noticed something he didn't see before. One of those girls looked familiar…very familiar. She wasn't splayed out in some tawdry sex pose, but rather it was a studio shot. The dark hair, the red lips, the high cheekbones. It was her!   
  
  
  
Oh shit, Styx thought. This is heavy.  
  
  
  
He turned around just in time to see Katrina standing behind him, naked, breasts full and heaving, swinging something that looked like it packed some clout. The fucking bike pump. Jesus. Then the metal pump struck him square in the temple, knocking Styx down for the count instantly.  
  
***  
  
Katrina stood over 'Vegas'. She dropped the big metal pumping machine and looked down on him. He was out cold. She picked up what was in his grasp. It was a large wallet, complete with pictures. She look through it and saw it was Nikita's, the sweet man who was one of Papa's lieutenants. Her picture was amongst those inside of the wallet and Katrina began to think. How much did this 'Vegas' know about things? Papa had told her to eliminate the threat, but perhaps that would be too hasty. Maybe she should take him back to the Red Star and find out a little what knew for sure and Katrina decided that is what she would do. Some gain, no great loss. She didn't get to kill him, but in a way, that was a good thing. He was quite good in bed. He legitimately made her scream, something a man hadn't done to her in a good while. She found her purse next to the couch in the other room and extracted a cell phone and she dialed up The Red Star. Makar picked up on other line.  
  
  
  
"Papa. Yes. I have him. I think we should bring him in to The Room. It might be more beneficial that way."  
  
  
  
"I'll send a car over. Stay there."  
  
  
  
"Fine."  
  
  
  
She flipped the phone shut and started to put her clothes back on. We'll just find out how much of a hard ass this 'Vegas Minor' is, Katrina thought. She looked and saw the rocket shaped smoking apparatus next to her purse. Curious, she picked it up and took a sniff, but instantly wrinkled her nose. She had never smoked it before, and she didn't want to start now. She pulled out the gun, went back into the kitchen, and sat down at the table, waiting for the unconscious man to wake up. It wouldn't be long now…  
  
NEXT:  
  
CHAPTER 11---SIMPSON 


	11. Simpson

As soon as I pushed open the glass doors of the Zaibatsu building, a chill ran down   
  
my spine. The place looked desolate and imposing, all dark marble with a giant statue in   
  
the middle of the floor. I walked up to the huge sculpture, a twenty foot tall stone man   
  
in some sort of pose while holding a globe of the world on his shoulders. The plaque below   
  
the statue read "Zaibatsu: We carry the world on our soldiers". It looked more like a burden  
  
to me. I shrugged and walked over the hole in the wall where a receptionist sat, carefully   
  
filing her nails. She looked to by my age, maybe a few more years older, with a crop of   
  
perfectly kept red hair in some sort of hairstyle that was trendy this week. I tried on a   
  
smile, and when it finally felt right, I approached the counter, Graves' suitcase in hand.  
  
  
  
"Hello. My name is Vegas Minor. I'm here to take a meeting with Simpson."  
  
  
  
She looked up from her nails and took me in when her face clouded. Apparently I didn't   
  
look like the standard Zaibastsu clientele.  
  
  
  
"Regarding?" she murmured.  
  
  
  
"Just give him a buzz, honey. He's expecting me."  
  
  
  
She gave me the hard stare a few moments more, then picked up her little phone and started   
  
pushing buttons on some sort of high-tech console. I stepped away and glanced at the   
  
upward; the joint looked big from the outside, at least fifty or sixty stories into the   
  
sky, but the lobby was so high that I could barely make out the top of the ceiling.  
  
  
  
"Someone will be down momentarily to take you up to him."  
  
  
  
About a minute later, a couple of mechanical-looking well dressed thugs piled out of the   
  
elevator, complete with the subtle-yet-obvious gun bulges on the side of their jackets and   
  
little radio coils attached to their earlobes. I wondered how they could see me behind   
  
their shades in the gloom of the lobby. They marched over, and led me to the elevator.   
  
  
  
"Arms." Robot #1 said, as I folded mine.  
  
  
  
"With two legs one nose and a cock. What's it to you?"  
  
  
  
"Arms." he repeated again. I considered fucking with the robots, but these cats seemed   
  
like ice, and nothing would rattle their cage. So I forgot about it. I rose my arms and   
  
the Robot briefly frisked me. He pulled a nine from the back of my pants and held it in   
  
front of my face.  
  
  
  
"It's not loaded." I said.   
  
  
  
Then he popped out the clip and glared at me.  
  
  
  
"Well, NOW it's not loaded. Those are some nice looking threads. JC Pennys?"  
  
  
  
They grabbed my arms and dragged me into the elevator, then pushed a button to one of the   
  
top floors. I looked from Robot #1 to Robot #2, then back to Robot #1. They really looked   
  
the same, and I considered that maybe they were robots,   
  
complete with a shitload of wires and circuits under their collars.   
  
  
  
"You guys can let go of my arms now. I'm not going anywhere."  
  
  
  
They didn't. The elevator soared to floor fifty-two. Eventually, the doors parted and an   
  
enormous office appeared in front of me. Before the robots could lead me inside, I   
  
violently shrugged them off my flanks and sauntered into the room. I didn't look behind me,  
  
but apparntly they didn't follow me in. Instead, they just stayed put, like the good   
  
little machines that they were.   
  
  
  
The office was phat. It might not be right calling it an office, because it appeared to be   
  
more of a den that a person would find inside some sort of Victorian mansion, except the   
  
den was the size of Wrigley Field. A mass of tasteful oak furniture and paintings decorated  
  
the office, and a chair with its back to me, facing an roaring fireplace. I walked over   
  
and stood beside the chair, as Simpson sat with his head bowed, San Andreas Chronicle open   
  
in his lap.  
  
  
  
"Mr. Minor," he said without looking at me, "pleased you could make it."  
  
  
  
"So how is the Family Circus doing these days? Billy still fucking everyone's shit up?"  
  
  
  
He looked up at me from behind his Lennon styled specs, brow furrowed.  
  
  
  
"Forget about it. Got anything to drink?"  
  
  
  
Simpson nodded and rose from the chair. He led me over to a full length wet bar on the   
  
side of the office and opened an expansive liquor cabinet.  
  
  
  
"Two fingers of bourbon, neat."  
  
  
  
He poured a double bourbon into a glass and I threw it back, smacking my lips.  
  
  
  
"That's not bad. Must be the expensive shit."  
  
  
  
Simpson made me another.  
  
  
  
"We're Zaibatsu." As if that was supposed to explain everything. He led me back to the   
  
fireplace and I took a seat next to him. I pointed to the flames.  
  
  
  
"How does the smoke get out?"  
  
  
  
"Mr. Minor, we're ZAIBATSU."  
  
  
  
What? Whatever.  
  
  
  
"You cannot know how happy I am that you returned my call." he continued, "I've been   
  
anxiously waiting to hear back from you."  
  
  
  
"Hey, you're ZAIBATSU. You could've gotten back to me."  
  
  
  
"But you got back to us. The briefcase?"  
  
  
  
I handed it to him.  
  
  
  
"Inside is Graves' laptop. Shit has all sorts of dirt on everybody. And I mean everybody.  
  
Lawyers, doctors, crooked politicos, gangsters, all sorts of business folk. Thought you   
  
might like to have it."  
  
  
  
"My deepest gratitude, Mr. Minor."  
  
  
  
"Hey, Simpson? Call me Vegas."  
  
  
  
"Very well. I expect that you want something in return for this?"  
  
  
  
I finished my second double.   
  
  
  
"A friend of mine in Liberty got pinched a while back for some bullshit possesion rap.   
  
It's his third fall, but I need him here. Have him help me with a little job I've got going  
  
on, but he's on lock. I'd like to know if you could help him be a free   
  
man again."  
  
  
  
"I think something could be arranged."  
  
  
  
"Lovely. That's all I ask."  
  
  
  
"Job?"  
  
  
  
"It's just something I've got going down. I might let you know about it when it's done."  
  
  
  
"Vegas, I could always find out if I wanted to."  
  
  
  
"Nothing in this life is free, Simpson."  
  
  
  
"So be it. Regardless, I will assist your associate."  
  
  
  
"Great." I gave him Graves' cell phone number. "Give me a jingle when he gets to town,   
  
huh?"  
  
  
  
"It will be done."  
  
  
  
I got up and shook his hand. He nodded and picked his paper back up. Walking out of his   
  
office, I wondered what my "associate" was up to, and how he was faring in Liberty City's   
  
Jail. He has a good head on his shoulders, but jail in LC could be rough, so the sooner he   
  
was out, the better. Once back in the lobby, I saw Robot #2 and I stuck my finger onto his   
  
chest.   
  
  
  
"What's that?" I said.  
  
  
  
He looked down. Once he did, I flicked my finger into her face.  
  
  
  
"You gotta work on that, chief." I said as I left the Zaibastsu building.  
  
NEXT:   
  
CHAPTER 12---8-BALL AND THE ARYANS 


	12. 8Ball and The Aryans

Jimmy "8-Ball' Vaughn stared at the evil looking food lying on the metal plate provided for him from the good people of the Liberty City Correction Facility. He always wondered what the "correctional" actually referred to. Jail was jail. If anything, while on lockdown a person learned how to be a better criminal, nothing else. He leaned over and examined the perfectly sculpted semi circle of mashed potato, and picked out a kinky black hair, something that appeared to have come from the inside of a pair of Jockeys. 8-Ball pushed the plate in front of him in disgust and sighed. How did things get so fucked up? Why was he back in a place that he vowed would never see the inside of? One word, two syllable: Danae.  
  
Danae Putnam worked the Tuesday-Wednesday-Sunday evening shift at Luigi's Gentleman's Club, a sexy little number with skin the color of chocolate and a pair of legs that a gymnast would've envied. 8-Ball wasn't the type to fall for just any girl, and most of the time he only wanted females for sex, and just sex. However, Danae was a completely different animal to 8- Ball. Smitten would be the appropriate word, but that would almost be an understatement. 8-Ball decided he would gladly brush his teeth with razor blades, or bear crawl a football field of hot coals if she wanted him to, and that is a bad place to be. After a hummer that rattled his teeth, Danae asked 8-Ball if he wouldn't mind taking her bag full of a few ounces of weed over to her friend Teresa's and pick up a little bit of scratch for them. Under normal circumstances, 8-Ball would never take part in any sort of drug deal, in fear of getting locked up or something, but since Danae asked him, called him 'sweety' and batted her considerable eyelashes, he forgot about his hangups.  
  
The exchange went off without a hitch, almost. Teresa was a mousy woman with dykie haircut and smile that looked like a picket fence. 8-Ball wondered why Danae would associate a person like Teresa but immediately dismissed it. Why did it matter? Of course, just like clockwork, what was thought not to matter immediately did. The boys in blue weren't very discreet when they kicked in the door of Teresa's and bustling in like gangbusters. 8-Ball found himself with his face on the dirty carpet, a knee in his back pinning him down. His rights were read, drugs and money confiscated, words were exchanged by proud police officers into their walkie talkies and everyone was whisked away in a squad cars. En route to jail, it occured to 8-Ball that he might be able to cut a deal with the cops, if he gave them Danae. He decided he didn't want to do that, not because he was the type to refuse to rat out someone, but because he valued his relationship with her over his potential freedom. 8-Ball replayed the recent events in his head and wondered if his priorites weren't just a little off kilter, starting to peel a half decent looking orange from his lunch plate when he saw a shadow cast over the table.  
  
"Hey, blackie. That's some nice looking fruit you got there. Don'tcha think you'd like a bananna instead?"  
  
8-Ball turned around to see an group of white dudes, a slew of beefy fuckers, all sporting various tattoos of swastikas and iron crosses. The ringleader was an especially ugly man that went by the name of "Chopper". Chopper showed 8-Ball his teeth as the rest of his cronies guffawed his lameass joke like it was vintage Eddie Murphy. Fucking Aryans. 8-Ball scolded himself under his breath for not sitting with people of his own skin, like he should've. Safety in numbers was the key to survival when on lockdown, and 8-Ball was flying solo. The guards didn't pay much mind to the prisoners, and pretty much anything flew; if the cons wiped each other out, the guards saw it as the justice system at work.  
  
"Sieg heil, fellas." 8-Ball muttered, then turned back to his plate.  
  
"What was that nig?"  
  
"You know," 8-Ball said, peeling his orange. "I was wondering why you guys would have swastikas inked all over your bodies. I mean, didn't you know that the Nazis lost the war? That's like me tattooing 'Los Angles Clippers' all over myself and thinking it looked good. Get a clue, huh?"  
  
Chopper's brow clouded his cronies quit laughing. Instead of firing back with the witty retort (which would be out of Chopper's league to do anyways), he did the only thing to do when some colored folks tried to sass back to him; he spit on 8-Ball. The loogie landed on the shoulder of 8- Ball's orange convict coveralls and started to run down. 8-Ball looked at the spit, then up at Choppers choppers, and threw the orange into Chopper's face. The fruit smacked against his forehead with a 'thwak!'.  
  
"Oh yer one of those mouthy niggers, aren't cha? You know what we do to mouthy niggers round here?"  
  
8-Ball immediately found himself on the scummy table of the jail's lunch hall, a cloud of white faces hovering above him, homemade shivs brandished, and mean looks all around. 8-Ball wondered if maybe he should've been a little more tactful. Chopper had his shiv out too, a galley spoon one end taped and other welded into a point. 8-Ball struggled to free himself, but the strong armed Aryans held him in place. Chopper raised the shiv and licked his lips.  
  
A whistle rang out from somewhere in the distance as the white thugs stopped what they were doing. The whistle kept on, and slowly grew closer. The Aryans looked around and their faces fell. Muttering curses under their breath, they put their toys away and seperated from 8-Ball. Chopper hung out a little longer and whispered into 8-Ball's ear. "We'll be seeing you later, blackie." and then dissapeared down the way. The whistle finally came to 8-Ball, a pencil necked guard clad in a uniform two sizes too big for him.  
  
"Are you James Vaughn?" the guard asked.  
  
"That's right." 8-Ball said, picking himself off the table, brushing bits of mashed potato from his side.  
  
"Phone call. This way." said the Guard, pointing.  
  
Phone call? 8-Ball considered who would be calling him and came up empty. He followed the guard to the telephones.  
  
***  
  
"Is this James Vaughn?" the voice asked at the other end of the line. 8- Ball stood next to the line of telephones, cradling the receiver against his shoulder.  
  
"Sure. Who's this?"  
  
"The same man they call 8-Ball?"  
  
Hmm. They knew him by his street name.  
  
"Yeah," 8-Ball replied warily, "who are you?"  
  
"My name is Simpson. If you're the man I'm looking for, then you'll be fully pardoned and en route to San Andreas within the hour."  
  
"Get the fuck outta' here. Who is this, really?"  
  
"It's at the request of Vegas Minor."  
  
Vegas? He was involved in this?  
  
"He said he owed you a favor and that he could use your help over here."  
  
"But how can you get me out-"  
  
"That's not your concern. The warden will be notified. We're sending a man over there as we speak to escort you.  
  
"Are you-"  
  
"Good day, Mr. Vaughn."  
  
The line clicked dead and 8-Ball stared at it, like it was something he had never seen before. A full pardon? How? And Vegas was mixed in with this deal? It did 8-Ball's heart a world of good to hear his friend's name, but wondered how he could've swung that. 8-Ball was skeptical, but still a bit hopeful that maybe, just maybe, he would be set free, like the man said.  
  
***  
  
An hour and forty minutes later, 8-Ball was sitting a plush first class recliner of the Zaibatsu corporate jet bound for San Andreas, nursing a beer and debating if he should watch either the new Hulk movie or the new Charlie's Angels one. If only every decision in life was this easy, 8-Ball thought, as he took a swig of his Samuel Adams.  
  
NEXT: CHAPTER 12---'P' IS FOR PAIN 


	13. P' Is For Pain

CHAPTER 13---'P' IS FOR PAIN  
  
Russell Marks was fast, but Angelo Styx was faster.  
  
Styx backpedalled the perimeter of the ring, peppering jabs and hooks onto Marks' face, doing a little shuffle, showing off for the crowd. The arena was filled to its capacity to watch the 1995 Washington State Golden Gloves Finals, and Styx was the type to milk the exposure for all it was worth. It wasn't that Marks was a bad fighter, it's just that Styx was better, and had what his trainers called the "instinct for the science". That sweet science, although Marks might've claimed not-so-sweet as another ten pound glove slammed against the side of his head. Styx smiled through his mouthguard as a combustion of flash photography exploded behind him.  
  
But then Marks started to do something that he wasn't supposed to. Marks started to turn the tide. All of the sudden, Styx's jabs weren't as fast, and his hooks couldn't connect. The shuffle was gone from his step and Marks began to capitalize. Styx felt himself backpedalling again, but now in retreat instead of showmanship. Marks advanced with a tenacity that seemed to come from nowhere, unleashing a flurry upon Styx. Styx's mind was reeling. It wasn't supposed to happen this way, he thought, you're supposed to go down in the fifth round, when I knock you out with an overhand right. Then you're gonna sucker punch me two days later in a bar scuffle that will eventually end my career.  
  
The hits kept on coming, and Styx could feel his arms drop their defense. Marks pushed Styx into the the corner of the ring and unloaded on him. Through already swelling eyes, Styx could see the crowd, but failed to register their sound, even though they were visably cheering and booing. All Styx could hear was the sound of a leaky pipe dripping water into a growing pool of water. He looked up and saw Marks raising his glove for the haymaker blow, now he the one who was smiling, as he released and connected, sending Styx into the vertigo...  
  
---  
  
Styx's head snapped back as the heavy handed Russian thug retracted his fist, and then clobbered him again. Styx's face had the look of a Canadian sunrise, an assortment of blues, oranges, and reds the prominent colors. His eyes rolled back into the back of his head before he caught a glimpse of where he was: A dark, stone room that smelled of mold and grime, the sound of water dripping prominent, along with techno music playing through the wall somewhere in the distance. Several instruments of torture were lined up against the wall as Styx rolled his neck back to face the man standing in front of him. The Russian thug wore only a wife beater and a pair of slacks, his white button up dress shirt and sportcoat were neatly hung on the iron door behind him. Styx spit up a mouthful of blood and groaned, as the thug started to smoke a Clove.  
  
"That feel good, Minor? Yeah?" he laughed through a cloud of smoke. "The fun be just beginning too."  
  
Styx groaned again and coughed.  
  
"What was that? Didn't quite catch it." The thug said, leaning in a little closer.  
  
"My name isn't Minor," Styx breathed through a mouth full of cotton, "it's Styx. Angelo Styx."  
  
The thug backhanded Styx, a ring on his finger opening yet another gash on Styx's face, then stuck a finger in front of Styx's eyes.  
  
"Don't feed me that. We know who you are. We know who you work for. We just want to know what you planned to do."  
  
Styx spat about come more blood and coughed. Styx wondered where he was but he had a good idea. The Red Star, that club that Makar had owned, and which Styx had been to once or thrice was the likeable answer. Styx had never seen this part of the club, a room that looked like it was located far underground, next to a mess of plumbing maybe  
  
"Yeah? And who am I?"  
  
"Heh. Oh, you are a person who I am glad I am not."  
  
The door behind him opened and the bitch from the apartment sashayed in. She exchanged a few words with the burly Russian and the smile on his face grew until it seemed that it would crack his face. He gathered his clothes and exited the room. Katrina faced Styx and stood before him.  
  
"How do you feel, Vegas? Did Markus treat you well?"  
  
"fck you."  
  
Katrina's wrist flared out and cuffed Styx across his cheek.  
  
"That's not nice. You can be nice, can you not? Let's be nice."  
  
Katrina walked over to the wall of instruments and picked up a nasty looking blade.  
  
"Listen, lady. My name is not Vegas. Angelo Styx. That's me. Styx. Are you fcking retarded? Why do you think I'm Vegas?  
  
"Shhhh now, we can talk later."  
  
And Katrina went to work.  
  
NEXT:  
  
CHAPTER 14---BACK IN EFFECT 


	14. Whiskey Sour

CHAPTER 14  
  
"WHISKEY SOUR"  
  
Amy Dodd placed a napkin with a red star printed on it and a cold beverage on top of that. The guy was obnoxious and had semi-bad breath, but as long as he kept ordering drinks, she could give a shit. She offered Bad Breath a lukewarm smile, turned her back to the bar and faced a line of countless bottles in front of a bar length mirror.   
  
Amy pretended to check several of the liquor bottles and make notes in her book. Amy pulled a weathered notebook from her low cut denims and pretended to make a note in it. Someone called from the end of the bar and she walked over. Markus Pavlov leaned on the bar, wearing tacky sportcoat over a tight wife beater. His undershirt appeared to glow brilliantly in the Red Star's black light. Markus was grinning like an idiot, but Amy tried to ignore it.  
  
"What can I do for you, Markus?"  
  
Markus pinched his lower lip and started to play with it.  
  
"Oh, I can think of things that you could do to me. Or even things that I could do to you? What you say?"  
  
Oh, just what I need, Amy thought.  
  
"Cut it out. I'm working, here. Did you want something to drink or are you just trying to piss me off?"  
  
He turned around and leaned against the marble bar. Markus looked over his shoulder and laughed.  
  
"One of these days, you will come around. I know girls like you. You know what women used to call me back in my homeland?"  
  
"No."  
  
"Do you want to know?"  
  
"No."  
  
"The jackhammer. They call me the jackhammer. You know why they call me the jackhammer?"  
  
This fucking guy, Amy thought. Maybe I should quit and go back to school. Be the vet that Mom always wanted me to be.  
  
"Markus, I have work to do. Goodbye." Amy walked away when Markus turned around again and beckoned her to come back. She did not. Amy stood at the other end of the bar, gliding a rag over the surface. Markus appeared in front of her.  
  
"Come now. Don't be like that. I'm tired very."  
  
"Go away."  
  
Markus didn't seem to hear.  
  
"We brought in the one man, the man who shot up Toby's? You know what I talk of?"  
  
Amy decided that she shouldn't wear any more revealing clothing to work. She liked the extra tips that she got for the push up halter tops, but it was always the same story with some of the customers; it just wasn't worth the hassle.  
  
"I had to hit him many times."  
  
"Markus, why are you telling me this?"  
  
"You I like Amy Dodd. You remind me of a woman i knew back in my homeland. Did I tell you what they used to call me in my homeland?"  
  
Amy put down the rag, placed her palms on the bar and leaned over in Markus' face.  
  
"Leave. Me. Alone."  
  
Markus reached up and touched Amy's chin with his knarled claw.  
  
"You're so pretty, Amy Dodd. You've been told this, yes?"  
  
Amy thought about taking his hand and twisinting his fingers into a pretzel. Maybe yank the half full bottle of Grey Goose behind her and bounce it off Markus' skull. Then spit on him. And dance on his face. She was wearing the perfect shoes for it.   
  
Instead, she just turned away from the bar and faced the bottles. She could see Markus' reflection in the mirror, Markus checking out her ass, Markus leering like a fool, Markus not caring if she knew that he was watching. He finally turned heel and moved away from the bar. Amy clenched her knuckles, shut her eyes, and took a deep breath. She made the decision to find another gig. The bartending was okay, steady work, but not in a place like the Red Star. A man like Markus could never be 86'ed because he was one of the house boys, under the protection of Makar.   
  
"Fuck this noise." Amy said under her breath.  
  
"Hey."  
  
Amy opened her eyes and looked into the mirror. Behind her sat a man with his elbows resting on the bar holding a lit cigarette. He wore a black tee shirt and looked as if he hadn't slept in days. She noticed his dark eyes making eye contact with her soft green ones in the mirror. Amy turned around and faced the new guy.  
  
"You know California state law says that you can't smoke that in here."  
  
"I'm sure that California state law says a lot of things."  
  
He pulled of his cigarette and inhaled, then dropped the stog into the dregs of a nearby whiskey sour. Brown Eyes put his hands up as if to say "well, there."  
  
"What can I do for you?"  
  
"Club soda. You always have assholes like that in here?"  
  
"More often then not. But some tip well."  
  
"I'd think that they might be seeing more of those loose bills." Brown Eyes jerked a thumb behind him. A scantily clad small army of tiny waisted top heavy women worked the lower floor of the room.  
  
"Yeah, but a girl has to have her principles. I mean look at that. Shaking their boobs those guys' faces, grinding up against their pants. Sure, the income must be nice, but not for everyone. That'll be $3.50."  
  
Brown Eyes reached into his pocket and slid a twenty-spot on the bar.  
  
"Keep it."  
  
Amy smiled.  
  
"Thanks, mister."  
  
She reached for the bill but Brown Eyes kept his index finger on the cash. Amy gave him a look.  
  
"Tell me about what the Russian was telling you. Something about Toby's?"  
  
Amy drew her hand back and folded her arms.  
  
"I wouldn't know anything about that. Now you gonna pay for your drink or are you gonna be a hard-on about it?"  
  
Brown Eyes smiled easily and made the 20 disappear.  
  
"Put it on my tab." Then he got up and dissapeared into a throng of dancing people.  
  
Fucking prick, Amy thought. She went back to the bottles and checked them, this time for real. She was a little low on Vermouth, and needed to snag a few more bottles of Skyy from the back room. Amy walked from around the bar and took a right, down a little hallway, and unlocked a door then stepped through. Inside, there was another door a few feet down a corridor, and beyond that a descending flight of stairs.   
  
She entered the store room, searched the stockpile of alcohol, grabbed what she needed, then got out. She carried an armfull of bottles back out to the bar. Amy placed them down on the rear counter when something caught her eye in the mirror. Amy spun around to see the cigarette floating in in the whiskey sour sitting on top of a twenty dollar bill. She checked her left and right but saw nothing. Amy put the money in her back pocket. She hastily made herself a Jose Cuervo and threw it back.  
  
"What a guy." Amy said to herself as another asshole called for a drink at the end of the bar. She ignored him and put away her bottles. Amy decided to make herself another drink.   
  
NEXT:  
  
CHAPTER 15  
  
"ROLLING WITH THE PUNCHES" 


End file.
